Winter in Bohemia

Thick winter makes
phantom landscapes.
Not the cloying kiss of death
but the ice-dry scorch
of those long gone,
when rich ruby lips
fade to dusty bone.

Has the well run dry
is this the last goodbye?
Your wooden frame
powdery and soft,
bends in the rain.
Home to fleshy fungi,
lesions on the skin
of this way of life.

My heart is filled
with the scent of mother
drifting through
the kitchen window.
My well is refilled
with shiny pitchforks
and wheelbarrow wheels.
Small thought that once
there was life here.

Take me gently
down fresh paths
carved through
phantom landscapes
to the far field
with a brand new sickle.
When the last
harvest’s in
it will be time
to kiss mother goodnight
and let go her onyx hand.
Tomorrow
will be a warmer day.