9 / 70
POETRY
9
January in North Berwick
By Ruth Towne
Winter warmed its waters first
with a stiff coat three inches deep—
starched well for sliding-strides.
But winter layered two more inches
thick as fleece-felt mittens
suited for snowmachines and snowmen.
Late winter warm spells rot the ice,
thawing them like termite-tunneled floor boards.
So no matter how shallow the mercury at Cider Mill,
fathers fall too easily under—
fall too far below to ever float.
But when the antique tip-up traps, trussed across
eight-inch augers, hold
rainbow trout taut on sturdy lines—
how sons’ and fathers’ features,
tucked below wool caps, unfold
like pennants rising in that icebox air.