A twinge of autumn this morning —
first slit in the stag’s running belly,
first ease in balloon-head pressure,
like the whisper how you will miss
this two-month, headbanging prison
when the winter drags six below,
the squirrely question again
how can you keep heat to eke out,
to let easefully out now and then,
so that the cold is a blessing,
a treasure equal in its spending.
Where can you store it —
childhood delight in adulthood,
trace of tenderness through love,
bare candle flame through the inner night.
Iain Twiddy studied literature at university, and lived for several years in northern Japan. His poems have been published in The Poetry Review, Poetry Ireland Review, The London Magazine and elsewhere.