January.

The tendril fingers of cold stroke
Softly down your wind-kissed skin,
And remind you that many more days
And nights will pass before the
Sun's warmth will chase them away.
The dead leaves that carpet the path
Have stopped dancing in the autumn
Breeze and are now sluggishly
Clinging to the ground, and turning to
A slippery mush in the relentless rain.
The skeletal branches of the leafless
Trees wave in submission to the winter
Winds, and call a hoarse and deadened
Greeting to the first fall of snow.
Evening falls early, and morning is long
In rising, the day dull and thuggish
Under its cloak of steel grey cloud.
And yet, in the growing bud, the shoot
Just creeping through the cold and wet
Earth, the yellow on the gorse, there
Is still a promise that spring will
Not be so long in arriving.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/01/2017

On viewing the morning through mist.

When the mist sweeps down and shrouds the tired leaves,
And the morning sun is water-coloured seeping through the clouds,
When the trees are casting off the summer's green canopy
Then we know that autumn has arrived.
The long and sharp-scented walks through the fallen leaves,
The early evening light that dims and darkens massing clouds,
The worn and fading grass that reflects the ageing sky's canopy,
All indicate that autumn has arrived.

© 2ndwitch, 30/09/15

The grieving of the year.

The first breaths of autumn brush softly
The now wrinkled cheeks of summer;
They kiss the fingers of August, in greeting
And farewell, sighing long and low over the
Blown roses and tired leaves; and then
The harsher cold of the steel-blue eyes of
A dying season casts its tendrils over
The final shivers of remembered warmth.
Autumn, fruitful autumn, heralded by clouds
And driving rain; a season of fading memories
And sobbing grief; hidden in the relentless drops
Of piercing water, the herald of ice and winter snow.

© 2ndwitch, 01/09/15

Not that yesterday ...

Ice inching snow slipping
And a wind that whistles
Round the hanging leaves.
Grey and brown against stark white
And black in the shadows.
A whirring and winging
Of birds, gathered greedily
On the feeders.
A soft song of sadness
From the trees
As they wave at the
Snow-leaded skies,
Hoping for a glimpse of
Summer's sun.
As the afternoon passes,
The echoes of days gone
Linger in the watcher's ear,
And give answer to the
Simple question,
Yes,
Yes, you are getting older.

© 2ndwitch, 16/01/14

Jonny, or Jimmy perhaps?

Feather-frosted tendrils reach their insistent fingers
Into all the nooks and crannies, and slowly and gently
Siphon away all the warmth, leaving behind an empty
Blue chill, a lack of colour and golden light, and
Replacing it with a silver sliver, a razor-like
Blade of cold, of ice and crystal-flowers, and
Welcoming lazily the wandering snowflakes as they
Swirl and drift in the wind.
As the seconds go by, the ticking clock measures
The inch-built-snowdrift, and the world
Fades into a muted soundtrack, muffled
And dull, the passing tyres caressed
And carried on the white carpeted road.

And do you remember, you, sat by your fire?
You, with a beer by your side, and your
Cigarettes ready rolled in a tin?
Do you remember the man you walked
Past, today, at the bus station?
Do you? Do you wonder where he is now?
Is he huddled in a doorway, or lying,
Past shivering or caring on a bench
Somewhere?
Because we all forget. And we should never forget.

© 2ndwitch, 13/01/15

Written as a sort of memorial to someone I read about, and to express a contrast that often strikes me. It is not the very rich, secure and immune to the pain of those with nothing, that provide the harshest contrast - but it is the working man, the working woman, who are only a few steps from the doorway themselves, it is he or she who present the contrast to me.

The longest night.

At the darkening of the year, the nights blend seamlessly
Into the days that went before and the ones that are still to come.
At the darkening of the year, the skies cry raindrop-tears like
Liquid diamonds, enchanted and ephemeral, never lasting.
At the darkening of the year, leaves wilt and fall from the branches
That cling to them in despair, fearful of death, ignorant of spring.
At the darkening of the year, the mornings fight with dusk to cast
A soft and feathered light over the beaten and bowed earth.
At the darkening of the year, rebirth is longed for, but seems
To far away to be remembered, and only death rules.
At the darkening of the year, whether or not we believe, we
Remember a birth that was perhaps an ending, perhaps a death?
And at the darkening of the year, we fight the depth of night with
A brazen show of lights, of glitter, of tinsel and of excess.


© 2ndwitch, 04/12/14