A week or so ago, I saw my own breath as I was cycling to my early morning padel lesson at my local leisure centre.  That is the nearest that we have got to ice in Castelldefels for a long time.  I have seen snow in Barcelona (though that was some years ago) but we are by the sea, the air is mild and we do not have naturally occurring ice!  So this poem relates to my past.
     Living in Rumney in Cardiff in the early 1960s, the garden of our house ended in a raised wall and over that there was an uninterrupted slope down to the bottom of the valley and the meandering River Rumney.  We didn't keep that view for long and soon what land could be built on was, but the valley floor was a large area of flood plain which was basically grass covered alluvial mud, drained by irrigation ditches called 'reens' and (inadequately) protected from the river by raised banks.  In other words it was an ideal area to walk the dog and safe from development.
     Although Cardiff is colder than Castelldefels, it is mild for Britain and seeing ice in the reens was always an experience, as was seeing the weeds, grass and reeds be frost coated and look strange and beautiful.
     I was a tall and solid boy, cursed to be in the second row in rugby in primary and secondary school, so ice had to be solid to take my weight.  Parts of the River Rumney used to freeze, but rarely entirely.  The Rumney is a tidal river where my old house used to be and brackish water has a lower freezing point than fresh.
     Standing on thin ice is about a combination of memories rather than a specific one and I think that its subject matter is concerned with words and definitions as much as the seasons and winter ice.
     It has taken me a number of drafts to get the poem to its present state and I am sure that it will change again before I am fully satisfied, but I think it has reached a level of development which justifies printing it for others to see.

Standing on thin ice

What is the season’s point

unless it is to change your world?

Its offer shows a way

to question what you thought you knew,

and look again at everyday to

count the differences that count.

My memory of outdoor ice

is never clear and pure.

On sluggish water sumped in reens,

stopped by the cold, and sheeted by

a shot-silk milkiness, it tattered

to the edges where the

pokers, knives and pins

stood silently aloof

(ghost-dusted growth)

like Christmas gaudiness

Miss Havisham could never have

in her small, time-stopped world.

But there and then, a

frost-poised moment,

invitation just to step

on faith and stand

with confidence on memory

of what was there before.

To feel the skin you’re on

freeze through the skin you’re in.

Meanwhile, the dog,

a city boy’s excuse to walk

through strangeness crisped,

pranced on the bank

and would not join me

on my crazing spot

to share a new perspective

from the water’s top.

Were I to take you back,

I’d never find the point

along that muddy brook.

It was a moment in a word,

and not a place.

It isn’t Knaves or Jacks

that limit sight;

its knowing both are

different and the same

and very odd.

I have given the reference to Miss Havisham and the 'Knaves and Jacks' a considerable amount of thought.  I feel that they fit and the poem justifies their inclusion, but I am also aware that they can overbalance the piece by dragging in something which is altogether more powerful than my words might be able to contain.  I suppose that I considered the risk was worth taking - though the final judgement on that is not necessarily mine!