Thorn tree faces down the flinty stare
Of a Welsh Winter’s sky. Last year’s berries,
Boon for raven and crow, cut to black
In a wind of frosted knives:
Last year’s blossom, last season’s bounty;
They cannot last.
Take sustenance instead from the rocks,
From this tower of gale-bound silence.
Like the Saint who knew to rest his strange cap
On the bare-boned high places, and build a wall
Against the worst of the whirling air
With chinks enough for the cold to cleanse,
Exhilarate, enlighten. The thorn,
Blasted to its essence, worn to the shape of storms;
Its strength is its scarcity,
its magic rooted in centuries.
I want to retreat to the eirie,
To run to the heights. To be rock,
To be mountain, to be wild,
To be still.
JAN/FEB 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at 'real writing' a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.