You wake, and know.
The boat is still as bones
and you, its red heart beating.
The canal was taken in its sleep
and paved with cold; the chilled air
gathers round your feet.
The ice, disgruntled, shifts itself
and chews a little on the hull,
sets itself to set again.
Beneath the glaze fish flicker
like grey flames,
Inside, you go on with the business
of making tea,
waiting for crocuses.