Drip, squelch, ooze, a subdued pitter-patter,

a background hum that is scarcely there.

Mostly silence. Faint creaking. Drip, drip:

a twig bows to release a flop of snow.

The clothes-line is hung with shapeless

rags of ice, on the verge of transforming

into aerial sheets of water.

What do they taste like? Like nothing at all.

The wood pigeon complains, complains, complains.

Smaller birds venture to the branches

around their feeders, releasing now and then

a puff of white from over-laden twigs

as they tweak out half-unfrozen seeds.

The wood pigeon returns to its moan.