A thought.

I opened my eyes and looked out of the window
And I had a thought . . .
I wondered it is was raining.
And it was.
Hey ho.
Mind, it would have been raining
Even if I had not thought
So really that proves that
Thinking is a waste
Of
Time.


Sometimes!

(c) 2ndwitch, 02/05/16

There will be no snowdrops in the rain.

So many times, the same words,
Round your empty head, echoing
And ringing with a hollow tone,
Each note a stiletto in your heart.
Dark, the friend of the aching mind,
Is oppressing the aching soul
And the clammy wind winds
Its tendrils round your sanity.
The snowdrops dance, the breeze
Teases them, and the rain caresses
Their petals, but no matter, no matter
They shed no tears, they are no
Sign of hope.
There is no comfort from
Snowdrops in the rain.

© 2ndwitch, 15/06/15

There is a reference to a song here, but as it is not really very complimentary in nature, I will not name the singer / writer, and merely acknowledge that the reference is there - if anyone is concerned by this, please contact me and I will give further information. Please note that it is the specific song that I dislike, not the person who wrote or sings it.

Without permission . . .

Cold and clammy fingers that creep and caress.
Feet that tread, slowly and surely, across the ice.
Trees with white-shroud branches.
Shrubs bent, weighted with winter.
And then there are the footprints in the snow.

In the dark hours, when no-one but the moon
Is watching, comes roving the fox, hunting
In the starlight, and passing under the windows
Unseen and unheard, but leaving the mark of passage.

When the sun rises, the silver-grey-steel shimmers
And draws lines across the landscape, cold
Water and snow-lapped shores, together
Marking the season's progress.

Cold hands, gloved but chilled, clasping
The hot mug of tea.

© 2ndwitch, 21/01/15

Introspective

There are some days when the temperature hovers reluctantly
Not very far above zero, or even does not bother to get that far,
When all you want to do is one of three things, to wrap up and go
For a walk, or to sit by a blazing fire, or to stay in bed.
Most people recognise that such days exist, so why
Is the individual so reluctant to embrace and go with them?
Why does the pressure of everyday life prevent the
Simple actions of stopping and taking stock?
Today I stopped. I recognised some truths, and also
Some lies. I recognised some dead ends taken, and also
Some through roads that I missed. And I read.
I am not sure where I want to go now, but I do
Know that I want to go somewhere and that the
Fear of the unknown is holding me back.

© 2ndwitch, 18/01/14

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.

Fact or fantasy?

The day is, from the beginning, detached.
It does not connect.
Life is imagined.
The day is detached and unreal.
The stroking finger writes a tale on the misted window.
The trees wave their denuded branches in an unfelt breeze.
The day is always detached.
Imagination peoples the hours with faces.
Imagination peoples the hours with voices.
Imagination peoples the hours with friends.
The day is always detached.
Food is eaten and drinks and drunk.
The day is always detached.
If the day stays detached pain will not be felt.
Tears will not be shed.
Memories will cease to exist.
The day is, until its end, detached.

© 2ndwitch, 13/10/14

Stan Rogers

A few words, a glance, such simple things
That can mean so much, that
Allow the sun to shine when the clouds
Are weeping rain on your world.
So many songs, so many pleas, so many
People for whom love is a reality,
And yet, and yet . .
For so many people that is a dream,
A longing, a pain and a hole that no
Transient pleasure can fill.
Sometimes we have something so
Precious that we are dazzled to the
Meaning and beauty of it,
And we carelessly cast it aside,
And trample it underfoot.
But I am glad he lived.

© 2ndwitch, 15/09/14

Interlude.

The air was heavy with late summer drowsiness,
Bees hummed, and birds scrabbled in the leaves
Beneath the trees by the river.
Leaves had fallen, some green, some turning
To red or gold, as the blanket of autumn
Hovered lazily just around the corner.
A flash of gold, of red, and the whisper of wings
As a goldfinch darted through the branches
Of the alder by the brook.
The grass, still green, but dark and tired now,
Cushioned each footfall, and murmured
Soft words of the falling of the year.

© 2ndwitch, 13/09/14

The armour is not shining.

Raindrops, relentless and dripping, sleel-shod and silky,
Slipping and sliding down the window, the window through
Which the light softly creeps and sidles into the waiting room.
The window, and the room, together, they look at the rain, and
Ask it whence it came and why? They ask it if it stays, the sky
Fall tears, weeping from the carousing clouds, wine-sodden on
Summer mead, and bellicose with bee-bumbled memory.
Over again, the conversation ambles back and forth, forth and back
And forth and back again. Why? Who? Where? When?
When will I see you again?

© 2ndwitch