The poem
Through an accidental crack in the curtain I can see the eight o'clock light change from charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things
in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone, telling its tale of how hard the night had to be
for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood no match for the mindless chill that's settled in, a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff
from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped on every window, its petrifying breath a cage
in which all the warmth we were is shivering.