You hurt my eyes, Pouring into my face, From the vast and empty sky. A hammer blow of radiance, Racing low across the countryside, Leaping over low hills, And the dark pools behind them, Tearing through the trees with such force, That I expect to see them shake. But they stand firm, Whilst you blaze amongst them, Turning every wrinkled bark into a relief map, Of towering heights, And hidden valleys. On you go, Never passing, Never staying, Culling the frost-flowers on windows, Shattering into brilliant shards, On frozen puddles, Stabbing through open doorways, And sweeping darkness into thick piles in the corners. Unlike the high summer suns, Drowsy and languid and far above, You come close, In our face or on our shoulders, Less about heat, More about light, And as much about winter, As the snow and biting wind.
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