Winters

A man in lockdown. Not just the prison of his four walls but of his mind also. Seeking clarity he heads out to the icy winter of the edgelands. His monologue….

Leaving my house at the depth of the year,
its walls accusing and every door
a warning or a bleak seduction,
I wanted solstice frost to clear
my head, needed the river bridge
to lead me to a resolution.

I crossed the ice-laced washland’s edge,
searching paths made strange by snow,
sounded out the unbrookable growl of the weir
and tuned my nerves to the magpie’s sudden
black-and-white
until it seemed I knew
where I was heading. There was the frozen lake,
and there, as the sun held fast at noon,
the fox aflame quickening across the pane
of trackless white, never to look back.

A wife in lockdown. The chains of winter, the frost of a long relationship. Eventually they step outside. Her monologue….

It was the deepest frost we’d had for years.
Roads became rinks, footpaths solid ruts,
which meant our daily walk was frozen out.
We sat indoors and found it hard to speak.
He channel-hopped. I tried to knit again.
But thaw it did at last and late in the day
we set off along familiar tracks,
him striding out ahead as usual,
swinging his arms. I struggled to keep up,
content enough to keep my distance though.

At dusk we dropped down to the sunken lane
and suddenly we stopped. We caught our breath:
shadowed by the wood, wedged between stone walls,
it never got the sun. Stretching before us
was a glimmering sheet of mischievous ice.
We’d come too far to think of turning back.
We said nothing but inched forward, apart.
Then somehow found that we were joining hands,
clung to each other, giggling like teenagers.
He held me, kept me close as a dark secret.
I saw the sudden moon slide by beneath us.

I knew, of course, we’d find our feet again,
but not before we laughed all the way home,
arm in arm and singing to the stars.

Another time, another place. An old man drives through the drifting snow to the hospital, to see a new baby, his second granddaughter. His welcome to her….

home you came in a
world of shivering white
little flake of snow
wonderfully made
may
you
blossom
like the may in your name
snug now
with your cargo of dreams
keep safe
your secrets
tiny
chest of
hidden treasure

At the same time, his first granddaughter, another child of winter, is approaching two. His birthday greeting….

January tiptoes in
with frost on his feet.
February, sleet-soaked,
splashes through puddles.
March runs wild
ringing with rooks and wind.
April awakes
and dances with daffodils.
May whispers her name
to snowdrifts of hawthorn.
June swims with the sun
in a deep blue sky.
July’s wide laugh
blooms with tall colours.
August sighs
with the swaying cornfield.
September’s dream
wraps the hedge in cobwebs.
October sings
loud with red berries.
November huddles
into lantern glow.
December’s bright star
lights two candles for Martha.

Note: I am indebted to my son, James, for the photos of a wintry Dorset upon which these watercolour paintings were based.