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The grey mists of a sleeping dawn, cosetting birds still
wrapped up warm in bed, watch a stoat emerge from
its burrow and sprint across his meadow, like a caterpillar
making humped back bridges in Concertina motion

The stoat approaches the discarded shape and sniffs it 
for signs of danger, life and food. In that order. Looming 
like mountains on the ground and covered in a Turin 
Shroud of frost, are a child's pair of crumpled denim blue 

jeans, vapoured brittle-stiff with ice crystals overnight from 
the nearby stream . Which still wends it's course beneath 
ice-capped plates, upon which faux steam rises up like 
volcanic springs. 

The shape also manifests a pair of very small dumpster boots, 
made for the tough little boy of tomorrow. The set is 
completed by a vibrant red jumper, a little too big for the lifeless
form it covers. This hoar, this frost of disjointed frozen dendrites, 

rests calmly upon this physical testament to the now peaceful 
soul that lies within. Whose lungs beneath lie dormant and past 
caring, whether or not the air is fresh and cold on its failed 
breath. Alibaster-marbeled skin profers one hand raised in a 

Post mortem wave. And a lid's refusal to fully shut one eye,
desperate to remain in contact with a living world and deny 
the truth of having passed. What the eye has really become is
a dull reflective mirror for the twitching movements of an inquisitive 

proboscis. This draws the eye of a man, standing at a man's 
full height, able to see across two hundred paces of a frost 
bitten meadow and light upon the vivid colour of red, set against 
a backdrop of rime white. Eventually, a voice from the ether 

confirms the location by a frozen stream and supports the 
recommendation to keep the mother away. The devastation
of a hundred heart-stopping caught breaths yet to be lived.
Before the tears can flow and the utter destruction begin

The startled stoat runs away from its own reflection. Back 
to the warmth and safety of its hole, in the bank on the Stream. 
And the grey mists sadly watch the final act, before its last few 
screaming tendrils are burned away on the coming sun
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