KANE RICKARD

The Jay’s Sestina

A jay flies through the woods, trees covered in snow. Bushes crouch in the fields, buffeted by wind. The grass is brown: the colour of dying leaves. The bird is a lost traveller, freezing feathers bristling with ice. He needs to warm up: there should be a fire close.

His chicks, however, are not close. His home by now will be covered in snow; even the sea is blanketed with ice. Here, the roads of the city endlessly wind as the night grows ever darker and colder –fierce, freezing winds blow. Trees stripped of leaves.

A house: food and warmth locked away: the jay leaves as the gloom grows ever stronger. Drooping branches lie still, a desolate expanse freezing whatever is caught in the wind and snow. Storms roar and howl, with bleak winds carrying hail and ice.

The snowflakes are webs of ice spun in the clouds, taking their time to leave. Trails of trees follow paths gouged by wind; burrows from long-gone creatures since closed. There are lakes here trapped in snow, and most of them are completely frozen.