Occasionally – very occasionally- I step away from writing novels and pen a poem or song. I thought you might like to read one. It’s short, which I find is usually a good thing where amateur poetry writing is concerned… 😉
Winter
The bitter haze of a bleak morning, the bruise of winter.
White sun, an obscure and diluted orb, makes the world a gilded host as I step into its cold embrace.
My frosted breath, paints the air before me in a veil of the season.
Icicles as the path of a teardrop chiming on each naked branch like a mournful winter song.
Cold hanging; stinging, as needles
dancing on exposed skin.
Old clumps of snow lay like yellowed candle wax awaiting the kiss of a fresh fall,
Billowing out over the tumbling hills like a shaken sheet; a collage of quilted fields in patches of white.
The agreeable crunch underfoot of the frigid earth as it takes my weight.
In the naked poplars, ravens take flight in a loud burst of beating wings; startled by my presence- their harsh black forms flying and twisting out of reach of the spindly, bony arms of the trees as they stretch their unclothed winter limbs skywards.
The most perfect of seasons, where beauty is found in the barrenness and the wildness of nature’s heart sings.
Anna Quicke, Author 