White Lies

The market-place has nothing to sell
Left alone its awnings shiver
Wind whilstles through the wood
Fish teeth snapping in a river
Peaks puncture the sky
Like a child's icy toes
Dipped in a stream
That a few of us know
And the clouds just a ripple?
A shock from the impact?
Shadows on the streets
Look like veils at morning
Ice blots in the stone cracks
Where tears have fallen
Oil by the bucket feeds flares to the heavens
Offerings of incense, small bills and lemons
Drumbeats in the caves and hearbeats in the huts
Protectors unveiled for the first time in months