When the sun

A poem I wrote last month. Out of season now, but I remember the feeling well. For dverse.

 

I remember when the sun

had lover’s hands

that warmed the skin

and teased the knots

out of bones grown winter cold.

I cover my face from this pale crone

who pinches cheeks

with fingers gnarled

as a dead oak tree.

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Thrush in a winter hedge

A revised version of last night’s rubaiyat for the dverse prompt. This one is in strict iambic pentametre rather than my usual rambling tetrametre. The second stanza inverts the stress for variety.

 

The frost that lingers furs the hedge where bird sings

At raindrops, snowflakes, all that winter cold brings;

His song, his soul fills our dark days with sunlight,

His heart too full too hear how distant bell rings.

 

Cold cracks the stone that gleams in moon-pale light,

Stills placid water with ice, silver bright;

The thrush is silent as mice in the hedge,

Hopes in the spring and bitter winter’s flight.

#Three Line Tales: Snow

For Sonya’s three line tales prompt.

photo by Clever Visuals via Unsplash

tltweek157

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.