The Poetry Forcast

The Poetry Forcast

I was born in a year of seasonal extremes-a harsh winter of deep snow and a broiling, dog-day summer of drought, wilting flowers and parched Earth. Perhaps because of this I feel attuned to subtle changes in our fast-changing island weather-and often make it the central theme or a brooding background in my poetry. I love the cyclical process and as a spiritual, though not a conventionally religious person, i applaud the intimation of regeneration- a shaft of light touching the cold stone of oblivion. Even at the dead heart of winter there is hope of transformation.

Acutely observing everything today

With the stretching light, suddenly more alive

Striding through the Peakland farms with purpose

On this February day of fire and ice.

There is something of the old longing, yearning

For renewal, the first soft winds of spring,

To the crackle of dried brambles burning,

A dream that slowly consumes itself.

Was there some other timeless space

Where I might drift and find myself?

To my left the sparkle of hoar frost

Shimmering crystals cling to clodded sods

As a cloud of mist slowly dissipates,

To a farmer picking out pipes and bones.

There is something shifting in the stasis,

Some subtle change that trips my consciousness,

To something, floating, vibrant, tremulous,

The intimation of new urgency

This festival of light; old Candlemass.