Arm over arm we plunge
into slap-in-the-face cold:
Grey shades swishing
a stone's throw
from the edge.
Stiff brine
below ripples
like a hungry mouth.
Our sun-seeking tendrils retract, and through
atrophied gills we sluice foggy soggy mists.
Dumb numb down in the bone
dampens enthusiasms,
inverts extraneous extremities,
paralyses our tongues
bent over themselves
to conserve
their memory
of warmth.
-------
Now and again, Sun lifts
its heavy head and sparks auditory
images: crisp Fall breezes,
laughter in the woods,
golden leaves
crunching underfoot.
Lightening-quick birds flit through
time's passage, turning over
first this leaf then that.
In the mud
reptilian claws
leave behind starvation's
delicate lacework.
Faith...
now called survival
...will have to see us through.
YOU ARE READING
The Smell of Snow
PoetryFrom my home on a tiny island, I smell snow as it begins to fall on the mountains across Baynes Sound. A smell that goes directly up your nostrils with a slight hint of metal or ozone, a bit like refrigerant. And of course I love to confirm my sense...
