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
Birches and dark firs
Distant faces bark-nicked loom
Reaching into the lacefall
Melt
Silver
Birch outside my mother's kitchen window
Hides the wind in its trunk
Leans and flings a net to catch the snow
Music
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
3 comments:
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'.
Ms. Martin's poem is an ode to winter. Gorgeous, simple. Thanks for sharing with us!
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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