Winter training

Two minutes more the call as daylight falls 
and in the distance a bruised sky gathers.

Sixty strokes then the hail is upon us, forcing heads 
to the oars’ heel, our hands set like stone anvils 

fit to crack from hammered cold, necks 
shrunk between shoulders, legs become bergs

the hull full of ice - whilst on the water
the sky’s white notes pluck the sea’s taut skin.

Published in Christmas / Winter, Vol. 2, Black Bough Poetry, 2021