it is cold
still wicked cold
at times when
the Russian winds
control
nay embrace us
I sit watching
the days go bye
under the trees
many broken and bowed
snowdrops bloom
daffodil move
in rows
back and around
not Wordworth's
gentle rhythm
but raggedly
I notice a man
my age perhaps
whatever that is
a face
as silver as birch
as if
but one of them
we exchange pleasantries
in no time
he slips
back into the forest
invisible
gone
I wonder
about it all
whether William
and Dorothy
were lovers
not in modern terms
of course
but as sitting here
they cherished life
before Spring fell
to worldly Summer
You hit the mark on this winter with a bit of political commentary thrown in. Scene after scene moves us to spring. Yes, moving us to summer. Will there really be any spring?
I loved "a face as silver as birch" and the glimpse of this man for just a moment. I like the idea of winter being a time of stillness, thoughtfulness and spring being a time to enjoy for its youthful innocence. Lovely, as always, Peter.
Hi Peter. Wonderful poem; great mixture of season and supernatural. I see you're in Dublin. My mother's side (Donnelly) is from Ulster, and I have relatives in Derry. Might be visiting them in 2015. Cheers!
