16 July 2016

Winter Night

Another Poem, like the previous one first written eleven years ago.  After a decade of being left in a drawer it needed dusting first:

As evening becomes night, the cobalt edge gives way to black.
The sky turns its back to me and I to it.
Fatigue yawns as I sit in the yellow false light.
No good reason to feel so; the day went well.
My coat hung open walking home,
walking without gloves on for the first time in two weeks.
The sun, reluctant to shine, was downright sociable today.
Charcoal mood, though. I wonder why?

The soul has its seasons, and even as winter sun cannot warm
A January day, some days the heart will be muddy and glum despite the light:
Leaving not green but filthy snow and muck puddles,
like spittle marked pillows after sleep.


Spring will come and fluff it up with crocuses and daffodils,
But in winter the place my head has lain
Leaves creases my cheek, and the gray and crumbly eyes
Of someone whose sleep is not done but nonetheless awake;

But in the morning dark of winter also glad to be there
When the cobalt edge seeps into the sky again.

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