Since my writing group went online, I've mostly done the weekly tasks I've set them - and it's been fun and quite liberating trying out different things. Most recently, I set them to write a poem about winter. (You can see the task here.) My poem was very generously and kindly received - so here, very trepidatiously, because I know I'm not a poet, it is.
Winter Trees
Beautiful,
but dead. That incredibly complex
Network
of branches, held aloft against a thrush-egg sky:
An
exquisite grey etching, done by the cleverest artist
With the
finest pen. But of course,
They are
not dead: only resting,
Preparing
for spring. It’s all happening
Inside
those enigmatic trunks and branches,
Powered
by invisible roots and fungal filaments.
All they
need from us
Is to be
left alone.
Their
backdrop is the sky.
Sometimes
dull grey cloud, perhaps
With a
tinge of sulphurous yellow,
A warning
of storms ahead. But sometimes –
Ah,
sometimes!
They
trace their intricate patterns
Against a
sky of perfect blue,
Which has
a softness summer skies
Can’t
match: the chalky blue of
Ancient
frescoes. And then too –
That
jewel-like blue, that you get
Just
before sunset, when in a last splendid gesture,
The sun
throws gold at the trees
And they flaunt
their splendour
With all
the brilliance
Of a
mediaeval manuscript.
And then
again – not often,
But all
the more precious for that:
Silvered
by frost, they glitter
With icy
magic. Or snow falls,
To
highlight each stark line,
While
below, new shapes appear:
Softly
sculpted drifts,
The
delicate tracery of birds’ footprints.
And there
is
A
silence, as the world holds its breath,
Before we
arrive, with our sledges and boots,
Our
shouts and our litter.
🅲 Sue Purkiss
