White-haired, crooked as a cottage beam,
He shuffles through the quiet wood;
Runs crabbed fingers over the young hornbeams’
Cool, straight limbs, picks at their tight bark
With cracked grey nails
And sighs. For these last months
They have been his, stripped bare and helpless,
Bending to his will.
But now
He hears her singing far off,
Sees her first shoots spearing through the slop
And knows: she’s coming.
And beneath her softness she is strong –
Too strong for him, that’s certain –
And with her steely sweetness she will win back
All he’s called his own
Then fill it with her colour, drive away
All trace of him, send warming breezes where
His chill breath lingers, melt his footprints,
Send him to some strange and distant country
Where he’ll lie in iron chains
Until the trees wax fat and sleepy,
Eager for his touch.
Winter reflects
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Quite enjoyed this personification of old man winter.
Thank you Charles – must say I’ll be glad to see the back of him!
Wonderful words, bringing an intimacy to the end of winter.
I see her as an old woman, but I enjoyed your creation greatly 🙂
Thank you very much – glad you liked it.
Winter … yes send him away 🙂
I think even he’s had enough of the cold and wet by now..! Thanks, Ina.
The personification is perfect, Nick. You are a poet. You are a poet. You are a poet.
And you are true friend, Tom. Thank you.