Lake Scene in Winter
       

Into the cold they go,
into the frost and the gloam;
hands clasped behind their backs
beneath a low sun sinking
and a sober moon hanging
over the ice, as they silently range,
tilt their hats into the night,
scratching continuous figures of eight.

Their feet mark out a faint
diagram of dull pain;
their artificial hearts beat
out stolen, graveyard names.
I watch as they circle and fade
in the mirror that I question in vain,
rags flapping behind them like dogs,
these bones sent out from my warm hands.

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Copyright © 2018 Jude Cowan Montague All rights reserved
from The Originals
Hesterglock Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission