The Third Morning
is a steel cage;
existence switched over
into Survival Mode, -38,8 C°
and falling
as Sun-Up approaches
under Venus & the Constellations,
breathing mask on
as we head out to feed the wood burner
in the garage building across the yard,
and see to the horses,
kept in the stable with extra portions of hay,
Anna and I feeling like two figures
out of Stanislaw Lem's Solaris
when we utilize sleeping bags in bed
and wear woollen caps on the toilet
when seated to defecate

The Third Morning
has a steely gamelan going
across the land
when the bleak dawn breaks
in a silent, all but imperceptible swell
behind the jagged coniferous horizon,
the low Moon a fairytale afloat
in its one-eyed stillness;
the heat of neighbouring wars rumoured
in sayings passed 'tween generations,
the cat meditating everything into palpability

The Third Morning
builds up
in the silent intensity
of unavoidance;
bodies no safe havens no longer
without high quality Icelandic wool,
as time freezes over;
the people of the North gathered
by their wood stoves
like their stone age ancestors
by their cave fires;

The Third Morning
a Definite Place in Space;
life itself a January Force Majeure