Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “winter”

It’s Green Again

It’s green again
and the grey thicket springs to life.
Tall spear shafts that rattled to Winter’s keening
festoon themselves with garlands of green
as they quiver and applaud Spring’s every whisper.

It’s green again
and the parched hard ground thaws.
Icy paving that Winter licked and polished
melts to mould that slakes its thirst with dying snow,
and woos Spring with a flower for every tear shed.

It’s green again
and the longing heart beats faster.
Dark days of Winter’s bullying and blustering
recede into green shivers and the scent of leaf mould,
drown in the sigh of Spring’s embrace.

Counterpane Counterpoint

In the dark of the night,
when I switch on my light,
my bedside window is an echo of white.

Like a dim extension
of my room, it blends in,
reality merging with bedroom reflection.

At a glance I don’t know
what is quilt, what is snow,
and out of my bed a poplar tree grows

as the snow sings again
its mirrored refrain,
a white counterpoint to a white counterpane.

Frosted

Morning’s first light leaves
tree silhouette frost shadows
on yellowing lawns.

The Five Stages of Winter

Denial is that first skiff of snow.
“It’ll never stick, you’ll see!”

Anger starts when that little skiff
gets up past your knees.

Bargaining is when you shovel the walk
but the rest you just ignore.

Depression blows in when the drifting snow
Is halfway up your door.

Acceptance starts when you come to terms
That winter’s here to stay

and right after that the sun comes out
and the snow all melts away.

#353

Chinook

It starts as an arch out on the horizon.
Soft, aqua blue in milky, white skies and
I know that it’s coming,
Chinook is coming,
warm wind is coming today.

Then the first breath begins, the snow laden branches
quiver and start to release avalanches.
I know that it’s blowing,
Chinook is blowing,
Warm wind is blowing today.

Then the snow dervish swirls, all heedless abandon,
carving yesterday’s snow into sculptures at random,
I know that it’s dancing
Chinook is dancing
Warm wind is dancing today

I punch through the snow drifts, Chinook creeps behind me
and fills in my footprints. They may never find me
And I know that it’s restless
Chinook is restless
Warm wind is restless today.

Just before snow melts right down to the ground
Chinook loses interest and blows out of town
And I know that it’s leaving
Chinook is leaving
Warm wind is leaving today

#352

Heads on Spikes

I always leave the pruning too late.
When spring comes, there are so many seed
heads on spikes
of bleached and
pleached canes and stems.
It’s like clearing away after Vlad the Impaler.
But it’s still better than shovelling snow.

#350

Days Like These

On days like these
I’d like to be
at home with a quilt upon my knees
with a cup of tea,
just you and me,
and a cat that wouldn’t make you sneeze.

On days like these
I need a squeeze
and, because it’s just that season
a Christmas tree
and something sweet
to nibble on while we both read. 

On days like these
We need not leave
our home to go outside and freeze
I do believe
We should take our ease             
indoors in indolence on days like these.

 

#345

Sir Beeps-a-lot

Sir Beeps-a-lot, Sir Beeps-a-lot,
your grader is a wonder
of brute strength over nature
where she’s got us all snowed under.
I love your marvellous machine
That leaves the avenue so clean.

The graceful arc, the pirouette
as front wheels leave the ground,
your full weight on the blade
makes a loud and scraping sound.
Which invades my REM
at approximately four a.m.

You are so cautious careful
Whenever you reverse
You beep, and beep, and beep, and beep
to warn us to disperse.
But I don’t think you have to dread
‘cause most of us are home in bed.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a fan
of your fine machine
as you drop your blade and scrape away
what Mother Nature leaves.
But next time, Sir, what do you say
to arriving later in the day?

And now you’re gone, the snow’s  piled up
all neatly in a heap
I’ll miss you, dear Sir Beeps-a-lot,
But I will not miss your beep.
And as I tossed, deprived of sleep,
I’m sorry I called you a creep.

#344

The Next Ice Age

There’s always a chance
it will never stop snowing.
We won’t know till spring.

Do ice ages start
with winters that seem too long?
Did the mammoths know?

One day, at breakfast,
they froze, grass still in their mouths
ice cubes in mid munch. 

Next millennia
we may thaw out from icebergs
toast still in our mouths.

#343

Coup d’été

T’was on a night, a night like this,
ice crystals in the dark
effervescing ‘round the glow
of street lamps in the park,
and chiming lightly ‘gainst the glass,
a million temple bells
pealing out a gentle prayer that
all would soon be well.

But stepping past the lamp light’s glow
another world appears
where chimes of falling ice crystals
are more like frozen tears
that steam then stiffen, salty drops
littering darkened trails
where winter sharpens icy claws
on frosty iron rails.

Along this trail a stranger came
all huddled in a cloak,
her breath puffed out along the way
like breadcrumbs made of smoke.
She looked back o’er her shoulder twice
while heading t’wards the light
but as she neared her outline blurred,
and vanished in the night.

But just before she disappeared
it seemed I caught a glance
of green leaves twined around her brow,
of flowers in her hands,
and for a second caught the scent
of some sweet garden spice
and thought I heard a silv’ry voice
sing through the chiming ice.

Oh, Summer’s walking Winter’s trails
and carries ‘neath her cloak
the seeds of warmer days to come
from moss to mighty oak.
More patiently than I am, she
is waiting for her chance
to overthrow the icy king
she’s plotting to supplant. 

I wait for her to spring the coup,
for Winter, overthrown,
to melt before her radiance
as she sits on his throne.
and with a smile that melts the snow
her vernal court convenes.
The Winter King is dead and gone
Long live the Summer Queen.

But until then I watch ice crystals
play in lamp light’s beams.
and keep her plots of coup d’été
tucked safe within my dreams.

#339

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