Fimbulwinter

The weird, wandering double track cowers

below sun-smothering trolls of grey vapor

haloed and thick- wreathed, birthing

wind-shriven furious swooping berserkers

doomed in a melted instant to snowflake-Valhalla as

blades scrape their icy bones with metronome

reaping from the crystal graveyard slope before the eye.

Minutes thick and plastic as cold-squeezed grout,

clock-tocks marked by rimed commas scribed in slush

and hard rubber, as axe-handle-slow spinning cars

echo dully their shivering thud-studded collisions.

And, the muffled white flutter of valkyrie wings

mask the motorway fallen

as I grudgingly drive on.