More shy, wee Feb-Scribbles today, it seems:
1. Once they were pine-trees.
That morning came that Great Wind.
They are now no more.
2. Old tides rush in where
No hovering white angel
Dares begin its tale.
3. My hovel, my cave
Remains the same this new year
Does not it, too, age ?
4. Around Greenland
White spume of cold breakers
White noise, cold music.