Winter Song

A fen is a land of the cold. Frost is not only a solid - it hangs, powder-hard, above the dark earth bed - I was born from these water flats, fused in all but fire. I have never burned the way wood can - I am not the char of a wasted bough, I do not catch; I am soaked through, fertile for green moss and black moss - and then peat frozen firm. And what wet dark earth expects the fire to find it? Harlequin, where you dance I am grown - unbound by frost, I bloom. ____________________ A fen is a land of the cold. Frost is not only a solid - it hangs, powder-hard, above the dark earth bed - I was born from these water flats, fused in all but fire. I have never burned the way wood can - I am not the charr of a hollowed bough, I do not catch; I am soaked through, fertile for green moss and black moss - and then peat frozen firm. And what wet dark earth expects the fire to find it? Harlequin, where you dance I am grown - unbound by frost, I bloom. For Sam.