Winter on the hazel mountain.
Trout, under the blue bank wait.
A man walks through the fog
Of Christmas, to the lighted pub.
In the brown dark beyond the parking lot
Bracken fronds
hold beads of cold
condensed from the sky.
Each crystal eye
reflects the chilly light
of passing cars returning home.
A crunch of gravel in the empty night.
In the valley the great factory is still
Upstairs across the way a bedroom sleeps.
And, as if disturbed by thought,
a restless trigonometry of trout,
in the cool pool below,
stirs and troubles the fractured moon.