It wasn’t winter
I have realised,
that it wasn’t winter that made me miserable and maudlin
It was my work,
the ruled, clock time,
leaving me night.
I have maligned winter,
curled up and wished for spring.
But I have wronged her,
for there is beauty in her empty boughs,
the dark crowds of swooping wings
through the clouds.
So many winters I have missed her gift of sapphire
as the kingfisher
hurls herself along the whirling flow
It was I who had no time
to run my hurting fingers through
to see glitter
in the low sun light.
I was tied to screens and rooms with harsh white light
and so never
had time to breathe
It was never winter that made me sad
I was missing her,
mourning her absence
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