In the dead of winter

The earth is now too hard to bury corpses. Water cracks
in the pond, birds peck thirstily at the ice. A wafer-thin
layer of city dirt falls like snow from a red sky.

The deceptive beauty of the apocalypse.

The hornbeam, in greener times a shield
against the outside world, a cocoon that proudly defies
hot days, barbecue smoke and hedge trimmers,

cherishes its last stubborn leaves
that gather around holes, shriveling
under the merciless gaze of winter.

On every branch, the frozen breath
of the icy night, which does not forgive.

(c) Leen Raats