February - not everywhere

Such days, when trees run downwind, the arms stretched before them.

Such days, when the sun's in a drawer
and the drawer is locked.

When the meadow is dead, is a carpet
thin and shabby, with no pattern

and at bus stops people retract into collars
their faces like fists.

- And when, in a firelit room, a mother looks
at her four seasons, her little boy,


in the centre of everything, with still pools
of shadows and a fire throwing flowers.

Norman MacCaig