I have loved the musicality of words ever since my late Welsh father played over and over again his 33 and a third record of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood through my childhood such that I got my own record, cassette, then CD then downloadable version. Not a day goes by when I don’t have a phrase out of this work popping up in my head.
I find ice marvellous. Its different shapes, textures, how it moves when touched, when fragile. Thin as skin. A iced over puddle is a world in itself.
This quiet poem follows immediately after the violent “Red the Strong”. It finally ends the celebrations of this month in the comfort word “snug”. All wrapped up and cosy against the abrasiveness of winter.