Mothwings

John S. Anson

EARLY FROST

A banging window and a blast of wind
broke my first sleep like a frozen hand.

Round the floor flames crackled, lurid flashes:
in the moon swirled dead leaves for dead ashes.

Shivering, I lean to shut the window.
Outside, wind-bare bows the oak in shadow.

Under, where the cracklers had been heaped,