Cold morning: the sun blurs,

Pillar of smoky fire.

And I’m indistinct too

Like a dirty snapshot.

Till it gets through the murk,

Shines on the grassy pond

The trees see me poorly

Across from the far bank;

A passer-by, recognised

Late, as he’s plunged in haze.

Frost wraps gooseflesh, the air

Is false as thickest rouge.

You go by paths with rime

Like matting. The earth breathes

Potato-stalks, and grows

Cold, unbelievably cold.