Grey…. I am not sure about this…….it’s more a pewter, but dull….
dull ……. oh…. so ….. dull…..”Dull as ditch water”, a grump riddled parent used to bark…… not about the weather, but about some creative piece I had written or drawn……
Dull – as – ditch – water………
I remember winters then. I remember snowdrifts, sledges, being pulled, but being scared, snowballs in the face ….. getting frozen toes and jolly red cheeks…..soaking wet socks, the crisp nakedness of undisturbed fallen snow; where has it all gone?
oh, how I loved winter, then.
It’s this grey….. this grey that hangs around like a splodge of badly mixed paints, looming, ready to tip all over my world… but it never happens….. not today anyway…… it’s just grey……
Like my mood: incubating….. not dull, no…….never that.
Darkling day is creeping towards dusk.
My ageing feet, stiff with years and fallen tears
are cold….. cold like milk in glass bottles
left outside to stay fresh when mum had no fridge….
My feet were cold then but the open fire
I used like a mirror, sitting in front of it
till legs bright red, ached…. unforgivably.
Thoughts of a cold bed, closed door
and gut twisting shadows, would mangle in my head.
Then, in light of a frost laden morning,
curtains yanked back with ferocious frustration
and single glazed, iced over windows
blasted open, “for air”….
“come on, get up” richoceted in my ears
and placed my bare feet on cold, Marley tiled floors…….
Today’s cold floors are met with slippers,
when alone, no one barks except the cat for food…
and I light the fire, my lovely hearth, myself.
It’s all ok, for the mother in me
now understands better the mother in her…..
It takes time, all this and Time…..never ceases to move;
Hissing is winter music
when logs oooze energy
on open fire fires…
Mulled wine is fitting
as temperatures drop when
Jack comes leering at windows,
creeping and seeping in through
nineteenth century crannies,
curling his icy digits around ankles and toes.
How can it be that yesterday,
buterflies flitted around Christmas merriment
and today I am curled under blankets?
Could it that winter is acomin’ in, at last?
The wind swings around the corner at me,
taking my shallow breath away.
The ice on my car,
the fog down the Snailwell road,
the headlights so bright
headed straight at me…..
I could be on a mysterious mission
in the deepest of January’s nights……..
yet I have a fever magnifiying the
magnificently, magical, midnight.
Winds, bring me smoothest passage
down these country lanes.
Waning moon dives
in and out the foggy air,
plumped and icy she slides silently
through the secretive skies.
The midnight train comes swiftly now
and with it, the Lover with his curious smile
shuffling along, contentedly,
on the frosted winter platform.