Eye-Whites

Beneath these branches, stones
slick and black as coal scratch
the spring out of the stream, cold
water between jagged edges.
Under tread, fists of thistle
and dewey bramble. I step
carefully and gulp my air
like soup. I turn and start
as a pheasant breaks the ditch,
cries dissolving in the fog,
leaving my eyes egg-white.
Above the ditch a bank, clawed
earth in the grasp of thick
kraken-green hawthorn roots.
Pores spit bark and loam into
a mulch-stew that slides down
the bank's scored sides. Beyond
the bank a pond full of roots,
boney trees bowed low into
the watering hole, to sift among
the last dregs of autumn. Black
leaves float in silt. Green buds
are born, fed on the funeral.
Above these branches the sky
is only so much milk. Below,
the opal pool reflects white
and lies open, a startled eye.