Wednesday, 10 December 2008

Wednesday by Chris Martin

Silver birch picks at cloud hems
Pulls them down over hibernating nests
The bones of a snowstorm rattle over the end of the room
My mouth is ready
To swallow the impending whiteness

Birches and dark firs
Distant faces bark-nicked loom
Reaching into the lacefall

Birch outside my mother's kitchen window
Hides the wind in its trunk
Leans and flings a net to catch the snow

My fingers touch the glass and
I take on the world's shape like a magician
Freeze-dried, forever

My mother taps me on the shoulder
Her glasses are steamed up

We turn to make Thursday's
Pea soup.

Chris Martin, Pembrokeshire, Wales


Crafty Green Poet said...

Chris Martin is in her late 50s and has always preferred writing as a form of expression. She loves 19th century literature, and also films which lift up the layers and add a bit of fantasy, like 'Pan's Labyrinth'.

Heidi Alfonzo said...

Ms. Martin's poem is an ode to winter. Gorgeous, simple. Thanks for sharing with us!

Gordon Mason said...

This is excellent. I particularly like the images "bones of a snowstorm rattle" and "bark-nicked loom reaching into the lacefall". But the unexpected finish .... great!

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