First frost

depressionate poetry.
passionate, padding up
footpaths through dublin
and over the quaysides,
the bridges and corners.
my wife's mother's visiting
from kuala lumpur.
it's her first ever winter. this morning
she saw her first frost
and took it as an insult
laid on by this ice-
covered country. seeing people pour water
from kettles on cars. it might
be her first time in gloves—
I didn' ask. on the liffey
it's fog, clinging like a wool-knitted
jumper. some bridges you can barely
even see the next bridge.