The shadowy ones hauling the Henges upright knew:
As they measured stone for death and wood for life
Against circling stars pinned to the spheres,
That the longest dark is womb to the light.
In this snow-deadened morning the weeping sun
Bleeds into the frozen arms of sky.
Tree fingers grope the mist
That persists in stifling sound and sight-
Clinging to the sleeping ground
Long past the low and feeble zenith
That drops meek and swift to the rim of night.
This morning the world sobs under the weight
Of hate. Children have old eyes.
But fractional tilt with the day’s dying,
And we look a breath longer under shy lashes
At our star that burns itself alive
To warm us.
Our days in the sun are numbered;
We won’t wait for the rays of June to stir
Our blood, but stoke our own fires
To become the winter light.
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.