It's probably much too late, but for what it's worth:
Winter-Piece (Charles Tomlinson) You wake, all windows blind - embattled sprays grained on the medieval glass. Gates snap like gunshot as you handle them. Five-barred fragility sets flying fifteen rooks who go together silently ravenous above this winter-piece that will not feed them. They alight beyond, scavenging, missing everything but the bladed atmosphere, the white resistance. Ruts with iron flanges track through a hard decay where you discern once more oak-leaf by hawthorn, for the frost rewhets their edges. In a perfect web blanched along each spoke and circle of its woven wheel, the spider hangs, grasp unbroken and death-masked in cold. Returning you see the house glint-out behind its holed and ragged glaze, frost-fronds all streaming.