Winter
What a time of year to set to poetry –
A harsh, ill-tempered season, prima donna,
Fitful and moody, given to depression,
Unaccountable, and sword-sharp blizzard storms
Untempered, uncontrollable. How false
The flitting silence of the snow.
Your breath
Scarce taken than the savage scudding clouds
Wreak wintry havoc on the nests and burrows
Where huddle humanity, and many other species,
Some even nobler, though say it in a whisper,
Lest you prick his conceit.
Maybe it’s time
Most meet to think, and set it down in words,
When the keen-bladed, icy-whetted air
Edges the mind so that it sees more piercing
Through the frail self-deception of our lives.
The altered day of rest, and all lies hushed
In the noontime sun of dawning spring,
While the mingling vapours of the seasons
Blanket the town below, so that its lines
Are blurred, as our horizons by our frailty.
