The Little Ice Age

The incessant grind scrape of metal
against impacted snow
through to the icey ground below
a slow repetative recital
the crisp crunch rhythm
fighting to clear a path way
out.. to the freedom
of the slip sliding highway
this eerie
nearly
dead world of white out
where even the loudest shout
is muffled
and dulled
against the constant whirl and swirl
of snowflakes
driven by biting winds
to a manic waltz
that rises and spins
then rushing down
to drown
the amorphous soft ivory curves
covering the frozen earth
a dearth
of the comfort of solidity
where every footfall
slides sideways
and disgruntled old ladies
stand in huddles with puzzled gaze
commenting on how even in older days
there was never so much snow and ice
casting eyes
at
cars that lie abandoned
like beached whales
lamp posts adorned with fur hats
fringed with icicles
whilst fugitive birds flit
agitatatedly
against
bright lit gun metal skies
and the slow slush hush
of people in a slow motion rush
to get home
to warm dry fleece blankets
fireside defrost
un-numbed toes
hot tea and buttered toast
curtains are drawn closed
as the storm rages on:
winter early come.

Cybele’s herald

Last night, the shade flickered
that covered the glowing floor light
as it moved, buzzed and quivered
against the silence of midnight

did a moth flitter around
all a skitter, silken wings excited?
no: low the drone and humming sound
reveals a different visitor alighted

impossible creature graces my home
so far from warm rayed, white gold days
oh how does a honey bee come
to visit me, in this dark winter’s place?

Melissa’s messenger bears me a gift
a reminder that summer is still
only hidden a season’s drift
sun magic merely sleeps against the chill

Delphic portent, this buzzing omen
dances drowsily, distractedly
heralds in advance a later time when
buds will unfurl;  life awakening newly

I lift this small yellow and black wonder
gently from its bound state
I carry it outside to the cool air
hoping it will wander to a safer fate

Madhava graced me this evening
presaging, that the darkest hours
precede Yule’s solstice passing
before the dawning, of better brighter days.

Vetr

The air is thick, damp and heavy
with the breath of people
long since fled to warm comfy
homes, deep walled
against the dead cold
of November evenings
blue black night skies sharp
with blue white stars, burgeoning
shine stark like ice splinter shards

As above, so below
frozen panes laced with crystals
refract the warm amber glow
safe heat against deep froze
ramparted silhouettes
municipal stone towers
old solid buildings: stalwart
lookouts through the solitary hours

Footfall trips and kicks hard
against unforgiving ground
a solitary echo against subzero
empty space filled only with ice
and a harsh lucent reality clearer
than the overhead abyssal skies
of overwhelming silence
a place so full yet devoid of presence

This city, that is a ghost
covered with hoary frost
once full with noise and dust
commotion and a heat hazed lust
silent witness
against winter’s progress
whilst the populous, remain oblivious
of season’s change: centrally heated
buried deep, in tv unreality.