I have realised,

age 55

that it wasn’t winter that made me miserable and maudlin

after all.


It was my work,

the ruled, clock time,

stealing daylight

leaving me night.


I have maligned winter,

avoided her,

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

glistening grass

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

her sharp

clear light.


It was never winter that made me sad

I was missing her,

mourning her absence





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