January, January...

Ice, thick,
as I have never seen
on Cherwell.
Jagged, floating towards Isis.

Low mists of ice-dust
drift on Christ Church meadow
and cool the blood
of long-horn cattle
standing
ankle-deep in mud.

A lame roe deer
beneath the trees
pauses, where
the sudden call of coots
splits the air.

In the gardens of Trinity,
all is order and harmony.
January blossom from Japan,
well-kept paths and lawns.
Controlled
and quiet.

Magdalen is a small, medieval town;
courtyards and golden houses,
a Tower and a Park.
Along Addison’s Walk,
tall trees like sentries,
follow the stream
which sidles out from Magdalen Bridge
to turn and twist
past the Deer Park
with its white deer,
(living, condensations
of the mist).