the morning chill and clear hurts my skin
while it delights my mind  frost flowers
pierce through clots of mud there are crusts
of ice on duckboards which creak and strain
underfoot as i breathe - steam becoming
shards - and light my morning pipe  strange
what a comfort fire can be: the hand-cupped
flare of a struck match the warm red
grizzle of lighted tobacco fraying to white
like a lit fuse  the clay stem feels snug