My first poems of Winter

(And a few nice photos)

After Bonfire Night, the weather goes rapidly downhill and gets a bit grim, doesn’t it?

Rain no longer drumming rhythmically as long fingernails, but rather hacking up all manner of brown gunk like a smoker.

I’ve always found Summer overrated too - sweaty folk on the bus and sunburnt flesh spilling out far too readily from ill fitting garments. (Or is that just round my way?)

When Winter rocks up; proper teeth chattering white Winter, not these ghastly extensions of Autumn, it’s like a welcome menthol sweet. It cleanses our palette of old tastes and makes way for new.

And sometimes, the old takes a while to clear away, doesn’t it?

I take lots of photos in winter.

December light is dazzling, frost is ivory suede whilst snow is the deep plush of velvet. It felt silly to use stock pics for this Substack when I have so many of my own. I’ve tried my best to match them to the sentiment of each poem.

My favourite photo is the bird bath which is iced over. It seemed to complement the poem so well - feeling stuck and hardened, but seeing brightness ahead all the same, as we all must.

And the last poem ‘The Bench’ - well, I cried as I wrote that one. But you know me by now….

Never One For Summer

I was never one for summer

Overrated, over hyped

Give me wrapping up in layers

Velvet dresses, woolly tights

I was never one for obvious

The garish, brazen blooms

Prefer a cordial nodding berry

To an ‘in your face’ perfume

Whoever slated Winter

Never rated petrol sky

I mean, sucked it as a lemon

Whilst an apple in their eye

The solstice hangs her notice

As a bandaging of frost

Nursing shortest day in silver

Til all greenery is lost

No, I was never one for summer

You can keep its begging charm

I’ll walk proudly with the villain

Of December on my arm

Saying No To Ghosts

The thought of you enters me

Never knocks, just barges in

Bull to my china shop

Always when I’m least expecting it

In an instant, tears start flowing

As though they’ve been storing in a secret cove

Ready to ambush

And I realise

You still have that power….

.

Going about my day

A memory tips up.

Persuasive scarlet in a stolen car.

“Come for a ride with me, for old times sake”

It says

But I know, I won’t want to climb out.

The beach warm seats will buckle to quicksand and I, to quicksilver.

Liquid unpredictable.

I’ll whirr and spin, first waltzer at June fair; jolting into chaos as my heart shimmies with the whim of my stomach, up and down, round and round.

My mouth will form involuntary smiles like a milk-full dreaming baby.

Lids closed, flatted by an arcade win - your rush of golden pennies.

And there I will stay, swooshing and bobbing around on whatever magical fizz in a bottle it is you have, that no-one else seems to.

And so, I’m very sensible.

I say;

“You’re just a ghost of someone I never actually knew. An illusion.”

Gulping down herds of impossible horses as I try to get home.

Vomit up the brick of you.

My throat bruises, rocking on the chunk and choke of raging violet feeling, twinging on air I keep annexed.

Finally…. I wear ‘normal’ like Sunday jeans

But I always was an awkward fraud in ‘normal’

I see you in the distance

Borrowed speed chasing off your own eggshell night

Driving women over cliffs they didn’t see coming.

But the more I practise,

The better I get.

At saying ‘no’ to ghosts.

The Lesson

You can’t change how a person treats you

And trying, only drives you mad

They’ll use your love as stick to beat you

Deriving pleasure from your sad

You can’t stop the way they come and go

Depending on their will

You’ll be flavour of the month

Until next day they’ve had their fill

People are such complex creatures

With their histories of hurt

As we grow old, the more we shoulder

Bellies cold from frozen dirt

You can’t change ingrained behaviour

Not every seed grows in your sun

Know when to cease to be a saviour

Self care means simply, moving on

Winter Birds

Each love letter bled me as scarlet to snow

Breast of me bearing the brunt of your ‘no’

For doves we both fed, have long since flown away

A blizzard of emptiness threatens to stay

And dreading the cold won’t make sun reappear

Moth eaten months mould to butterfly years

.

Must stop feeding the greedy who beg at my door

Dining on need, shaking salt on my sore

All silverware stolen by ravens in frost

And even a proud homing pigeon gets lost

Silent envy of ivy is strangling the wall

As thorn laden holly queens over it all

.

Gaslight - a trick of my flicker - grows dimmer

As heat of a summer is summoned to simmer

Let dinner be served as a sermon of soul

Wrath is the broth when you’re stale without role

But worse, is the taste of a waste of your time

Rot of regret cutting raw flesh as lime

.

We can chide with our voices or use them to sing

Head for new heights on a prayer and a wing

If seconds are seeds on clock faces of tower

Nurse each minute baby that dies ’fore the hour

I will try again, fly again, nest again, stronger

But first, I must hibernate, just a while longer…….

The Bench

.

I notice they replaced the bench

Used to be made of wood

Been swapped for something plastic.

Must have been broken

Cheaper to replace

Plastic is probably more durable.

.

Remembered how we used to sit there

“Nearly home, let’s have a little rest!”

Maybe give you a snack

Tell you how strong your legs were

But the wood got rotten

That’s how it goes!

Nothing lasts for ever.

.

And not so long ago

Someone stole the stone on the path, too

Thick slabs of it, been there ages

They filled it in, of course

Had to make it safe

But not like for like

That doesn’t seem to matter.

.

They’ve kept it brown, like the old one

The bench

But it won’t green with algae

The way the other did

No grainy eyes to share a gaze with

The creak would be different

If I sat down

So I won’t

.

And the more I look upon this scene

I realise, it’s no longer mine

Ours

How can it be

When all evidence has been removed?

How can I prove the memory existed?

That we once rested here

Mother and child on a hill

.

But still, I walk past and we’re there

Plain as day on this cuckoo postcard

Your little legs swinging

Hands cold as jelly

Still,

I hear your voice sing as bells

Smell the chestnut curls of your hair

.

And one day, no doubt,

There will be houses built here

No bench at all

But I guarantee, I’ll see us

Red pushchair and shopping bags

Our cold breath wreathing the air

Pausing and smiling

On our way home.