The curlew's cry.

The wind that stroked the snows of winter hills
And broke that fragile unity of tree and leaf
Comes now to shake the reeds in springbound thrill
And to soothe the sheep-cropped grass's icy grief.
The cloud that crossed the white-horsed Peatland firth
And cast its gentle shadow on the ground
Is dancing now, in grey and white rain-mirth,
And shedding tears that drive this earth around.
The wheel of time our passing turns once, and once again
And winter soon will give its place to spring;
The last dead leaves of autumn are clinging, ill-refrain,
To the temptress song that summer's wandering brings.
Hope is showing now its green and spearing leaves
The daffodil and crocus, and snowdrops, blanket-weave.

(c) 2ndwitch 26/02/17

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 the first day of March.

Sighing song, on the wandering wind
That plays with each step on the waterside walk.
Taunting tune, haunting and ethereal,
Reflected in the clouds that shroud the hills,
And veil in mist the vagrant view.
Raindrops that run, inexorably, down
The walker's neck, and settle soggily somewhere
Below the chin.
The whispering waves, washing
The shore, and sending shivering shimmers
Of water to caress the roots of the trembling trees.
Yesterday was winter, soon spring appears,
And the mad March winds will buffet
And toss the lingering dead leaves, and the
Drooped and dying grass into a
Frenzied swirl of the distant promise
Of summer.
But for now
It is winter with nature and me.

© 2ndwitch, 01/03/15

(Some time back, I found a version of the Robert Tannahill poem 'The Braes O'Gleniffer', I must have had the copy for ages, but had never 'listened' before - it is the last track on one of Ivan Drever's albums. He is a good singer, a superb guitarist - and he has nailed this song totally. I was walking along the shore of the loch, north from Firkin Point today, and the words of it came to mind for some reason, and so the last line of my poem is kinda stolen from RT and ID. I would love to know more - like where the tune is from (ID being a composer of note it could well be his) but feel it would be impertinent to ask! Or sycophantic - and I hate sycophants!)

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