On the winter pool of the world

 

Cold is in the colour of the fog

that swallows stars and frozen grass.

Stark is the skeleton of the year

skin like blackened parchment, peeling

from tree trunk and bough.

Silence is in the air

where bird chatter should vibrate,

the seed gatherers and insect hunters, flocking,

starved with cold, no bright fluttering to waste.

Damp is in the grey cloud

that hangs where blue should glow

and sun and moon send light dancing

on the winter pool of the world.

 

When will it break,

the grip, tight as steel bands girt about?

 

When the sun will crack the ice

on dark puddles black as death,

and breathe life into silver fish,

the still stars, reflecting.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

9 thoughts on “On the winter pool of the world”

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