Here is the fourth poem from the ‘Four Season Quartet’.
Accepting Winter
Like an abandoned dog hunting its former owner,
Winter keeps a certain distance, until the time is right.
Then it pounces, with revenge in sight.
I am wounded, growing old. Cold knows when to bite.
A late Spring had grudgingly seen bad weather off,
but Summer passed all too quickly, Autumn too.
Once more the threat was real again,
of ice striking dagger teeth.
Winter can move stealthily
like a pack of dogs sniffing out its prey.
I am limping and my scent is strong. Cold makes flesh red raw.
Life had prospered in our valley, until the ground froze and the air petrified.
That made the buzzard hunt starlings, astonishing for such a lazy bird.
But still we were a haven, the place of last resort.
Until the blizzard.
I am hoping for deliverance. Cold is stalking me.
In came the lapwings, under a stomach aching sky:
from the North, the East and the West,
desperately heading South before the storm.
Snowflakes teased their wings,
turning feather-weight moisture heavy,
in air made solid by ice.
I must endure. Cold chills my blood.
I was young then.
It was almost a year into my first marriage
and we were newly moved into our own house.
From the bedroom window
I watched the wildlife struggle
and felt the cold seeping into our life too:
freezing hearts,
entombing us in a perpetual winter
so soon after wedded life together had begun.
I am exhausted. Cold gnaws at my very soul.
Hear the wind, which had dropped before the storm,
whirling, strong from lying in wait.
See the melt, from land gorged in ice water,
overflowing in sudden freedom to run.
Feel the flood, powered by rivers
whose icy caps have blown.
I am floating. Cold in my unmarked grave.
That was the thaw. Let me out, it had roared.
Dirty water, a filth of mud, remained
after the flood. In the kitchen, under the lounge,
floorboards twitching, “I can’t stop that liquid.”
Panic. Sewage on my hands.
He won’t lift a finger. Cold in our flooded house.
I had wondered if something was wrong.
I’d been away: husband had met me, wearing wellies
under his smart trousers, with jacket, shirt and tie.
A wry smile flickered across his face,
making me wonder
what it was I did not know.
He has his own agenda. Cold in our disconnection.
Our car turned a corner, sharply,
lurching heavily to the right:
it made us slither, our seats were slimy,
“What on earth is this all about?”
“Car started first time.”
He sounded rather proud.
No need to clean, justified.
“Was it in the garage?”
“Oh yes, totally immersed.”
“You should have told me,
not knowing is so much worse.”
It blew the cover off the drain, spurted out from the loo,
cascaded down the hill, attacked the back door too.
It bubbled up through the lounge,
reduced our lighting to a glimmer,
shrunk the woollen carpets,
and with no insurance, was a killer.
But oh, what fun it had
somersaulting backwards,
joining forces with the sink,
splashing about freely,
before it began to stink.
Several weeks later after it had started to stagnate:
it did eventually form quite a homely little lake.
He hasn’t noticed, or doesn’t care. Cold as he ignores me.
When our house was sold,
we had to lie about the drains,
and our buyers had such rotten luck,
finding flooding was a pain.
But we got away,
nothing can touch us here.
Now we live a solitary life
ensconced on top of a hill,
although, of course that means
putting up with wind chill.
But, there are compensations:
we can shout at each other, tear ourselves apart,
confident that no-one else knows.
Yes, we were happier down below,
but that does seem awfully long ago.
I was always ever hopeful. Cold in my resignation.
Winter takes many forms: scouring the land,
reducing living things to a bare minimum,
or marking the passage of years in a lifetime.
It brings closure, sometimes brutal.
We look for meaning or purpose
in our final season,
but ultimately, when life ends,
remain just as puzzled as we were
all those years ago, when it began.
We cannot demystify death.
You thought that you’d cheated it. Cold in that hospital room.
“That view is timeless. The air is so crisp. What a perfect day.”
Countless crystals glow white in a light which dazzles.
The snow lays thinly, squeezing heather and grass
through life-giving openings.
A pony nods approval.
“Here, have a bun.”
The donor is a small child,
barely reaching halfway up his chestnut flesh.
He is chewing thoughtfully,
watching her, wild but pretending tame,
captivated by her gentle touch.
Things are never what they seem.
You are alone now. Cold in the presence of death.
This unspoilt landscape keeps a secret close to its heart.
Buried, lest word gets out and sours the tourist appetite
for ‘olde worlde’ England.
Farming here does not pay.
Men must have granite in their bones
to make a living from moorland.
But when adverse weather eases,
even slavish work must pause,
to admire a glimpse of earthly heaven.
Can life ending be as peaceful?
Pure beauty only lasts a single day.
Winter. Enjoy remission while you may.
Don’t resist. Accept closure. Warm to the company of angels.
