Snow falls

Photo©Tim Green
Queensbury, close to where I was brought up.

Snow falls

only in the mind’s eye now,
a glass globe, a postcard,
face pressed to cold glass,
how it covered those fields
where black walls ran,

but I see it still,
like the ghosts of winter hills,
the dark sea rolling,

and in the nightwind
dead voices whisper
with the pine-scented tinkle
of glass decorations,
reminding me of its magic.

#Three Line Tales: Snow

For Sonya’s three line tales prompt.

photo by Clever Visuals via Unsplash


Robin sits on the empty feeder with feathers ruffled by the wind and cold combing through the fluffy down next to its skin.

The feeder is empty like the countryside, fallen quiet because they have all gone away, leaving only snow behind them.

Robin peers through the falling flakes, smells only winter in the wind and knows, somehow, in the cold creeping ever closer to the warm core of its tiny body, that this winter will never end.

On the night lake

Another of Paul Militaru’s photos with the lovely title of Night and snow over birds prompted this poem. Thank you, Paul!


On the night lake, grey gulls glide,

While snow falls thick upon the ride,

Where foxes pad and pheasants hide.

In summer waters small boats plied

Across the lake so smooth so wide,

Where mallards swim and grey gulls glide,

And many came here, sat and sighed

For lovers lost, for lovers died.

While snow falls thick upon the ride,

As cold as tears I’ve shed and dried,

Like stone I sit in lonely pride,

Among the gulls that drift and glide,

And wait for turning time and tide.


Winter’s tales

Photo ©Lewis Collard


In the north,

ice floes sail,

compact glitter,

trailing their cold embrace

through the glass green ocean.


Glistens the sun

on frost in winter meadows,

and the waning light

in rolling tears

when no one is there.


Cold wind carries the restless leaves

gathered in the earth’s lap,

where blackbirds sort the living and the dead.


All dead, the flowers,

glowers the cloud,

shrouds their remains,

chains of frost bedeck their bed,

dead winter’s feast,

least of all the sparrows shiver.

Secret Keeper’s poetry challenge

The Secret Keeper’s prompt words this week were:


The first poem I wrote was this, very short one.

No stony heart


There is no stony heart,

So strait, so strict,

It has never a flaw,

That the notes of love’s sweet song,

Cannot part and enter in.


Then I realised that by tweaking one word (substituting a synonym for ‘strict’) the poem I was already working on fitted the prompt pretty well.




Leaf drifts earthwards,

Slowly, slowly,

From the mother branch, black ’gainst the sky.


Sky fills with snow falling,

Softly, softly,

Sailing a sea of stone-grey cloud.


Clouds break and scatter,

Silently, silently,

Gold-seamed, ink-swirled, riding the wind.


Wind from the north blows,

Wildly, wildly,

Shaking the last gold from winter trees.


Trees filled with birds singing,

Sweetly, sweetly,

Every note so flawless and true.


True to yourself, you walk,

Stiffly, stiffly

Striding through snowflakes, birdsong, heartbeats.


Heartbeats and song echo,

Joyfully, joyfully,

For I walk beyond sadness in the gold-seamed sky.

Deirdre dreams

Sharing the same sort of thoughts as Jim Mackintosh.

Photo ©Stephen McKay

Rowan berries in the snow

Rubies’ gleam no more intense,

Cold pierces to the bone.

The raven spreads frost-stiffened wings,

Black plumes will feel the wind no more,

His hair swept back from snow-white brow.

Red drops, bright berries, ruby lips,

In a dream where passion cools like winter breath,

And happiness drifts and fades, December mist,

She touches with trembling finger,

Her love’s life blood,

And begins a life of winter weeping.