In the fields, the ibis feed,
like snow where snow never falls,
in the pastures where the shaggy
horses wait in timeless being.
Winter's prison has its walls,
grayer than the cold horizon,
closed as broken hearts are closed
to the hope of any Spring.
Such days are too short for hope;
I grow weary with the naming
of my losses. It is dusk
and their faces are the wind.
This, my cell, is bounded by
shadow bars the bare-branch trees
cast across the frosted windows,
fading, fading into night.
Dawn comes cold, yet there will be
sun, a memory of dream.
I, too, wait, forgetting time,
knowing only winter's prison.
Stephen Brooke ©2010
At last, a poem. First of the new year but not very new, style and attitude-wise, eh? Oh well, this weather makes me even gloomier than normal. Laid out in that Hiawatha/Kalevala trochaic tetrameter, which may not be the best for the mood here but I wanted that 'trudging forward' feel.
I'm experiencing the worst/longest spell of really cold weather since moving to Peanut Road (This is my fourth winter here) and I'm hoping it will not be repeated! The references in the first stanza are stuff I've observed driving up the road (have to get groceries at the Pig up in Graceville now and again) -- there are several pastures with horses north of here (one pretty fancy equestrian place) and, yes, the horses are looking a bit like wooly mammoths right now. There have been large flocks of white ibis in the fields. When I was a kid, the local crackers (in southern Florida) called them 'curlew' and claimed they were good eating. Never tried one and don't intend to!