A Pipistrelle in Winter

Fly instead, should be feeling.
A wing, a dusk and stuttered dreaming,
compose, create, furred life complete
to demonstrate a fleeting sleep.

Suppose instead you stay once waked
Suppose preyed eye prick restless state
search only for each precious night
a moth, to dust, seeking light.

An iced filled window, leaded pane
a purple sky, stilled weather vane
a screaming moon, reflect frost shattered
uncooled blood prey, its silence tattered

Despite still flies, hard reason crushed
Beats still small heart and soft claw touched
fierce is hate, commend each beating
awakes its kind, cold hold is stealing.

a small delight, a single flame

a doom filled frost to season blame.

Contrast the night with darkened spire

of church, of faith, each speck entire

In dark winged fold, webbed belfry hold

accept embracing bright eyed cold.

This winter roars, the ice stick spike
rage red the hunt, still that it might
the ghost of all on leathered wing
crushed body of, this one small thing.