Poetry by Clare Best

Here is a poem from a series of 'snapshot' poems I'm writing. In each poem I aim to capture sensory details of Woodlands, details particular to a time of year. Also read 'March, Afternoon' part of the same series of poems.

January, morning

Someone worked overtime last night. Someone
swept bootprints and straw from the crewyard,
shook the last shells off the walnut tree,
blew an icy crust onto ridges of standing plough.
Reeds and rushes that stood in ditch-mud at midnight
this morning spear through glass. The sky's scrubbed
light blue five shades brighter, jet trails gone
the sun's been rolled to the edge of the Wash
to rise gigantic, whiter than before.