Hardly a hint of sun to break the grey
yet some live spell works its way within me:
irritations and confusions today
with remonstrance of squabbling birds agree.
Mild breeze, speckled with rain-spit on the skin,
says, winter-deep, that spring will surely be;
and all the order held in freeze within -
torrenting whorls of turbulence set free.
Oh, I have held a winter through the year:
ice-bound my longships in a narrow fjord.
New chaos of a spring within I fear,
to make mistakes that I can ill afford.
When memories with yearnings mix and twine,
keels rock and groan, aligned with tide and time.
.......................
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
