The frost hits late; a hard bright scattering of crushed stars;
A white fallen sky, lit by daffodil suns.
A slow-waking winter, gripped with sudden jealousy
Snatches back the earth from spring’s warm, outstretched hand.
I could rail, resentful, against this cold selfishness;
Point to all I have endured, hoped for, dreamed of.
Yet with this day’s unlooked-for sting comes a clarity:
A sharper sense of all that is, and might be.
Doha is an Indian metrical poetic form, with each stanza consisting of two lines, the first with 13 syllables and the second with 11. In Hindi, there are specific stress patterns within the lines, but these are pretty much impossible to replicate in English. A true doha should also be a rhyming couplet, which I managed by the time I got to the fourth one! N.
Gonecycling (again) 