Dining chairs circle like standing stones in a field of snow, a fridge floats open in the frozen pond, darkness falls behind the trees, we bolt the cabin door, we rise and roll the workings out in morning white, the pedal sew-machine, mangle, potters-wheel, cut through the large frozen mammal prints, that children pretend they don’t see but run about to wipe them out while we sew, throw pots, mangle, treadle the rhythm of hand cranks on cogs, thawing frozen time until we find our new industrial revolution and when boys turn, send them to their fathers in the forest.
"Classic"
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