My Goddess in the Morning

The sky is old stone grey 

and dripping, there is  

ice on the garden pond, 

your bare feet are going numb

in wellington boots, my

Proserpina, Fortuna, Agnese, 

in your dressing gown, 

pouring boiling water 

into the bird bath. 

For love of the land, 

dark fear of the season – 

we lean against the fence,

watching the cattle 

in the neighbour’s field,

belly to backbone, pressed

tight and lowing.