Now that rain reflected lights refract the decorated streets,
with fractured ribbons, shivering through the darkening days,
obscure, tangential, liminal,
this ancient season sinks down into Earth;
a sharpened flint,
an amber bead.
Concealed by hide of beast and pelt of fox,
fur dew- beaded, falcon – watched,
its pact with time is held through fire and frost.
The heron flying east and west does not betray
the small and lonely corners of the field and wood and fen
wherein it lays;
waiting for the turning of the earth,
the turning of the year,
the second’s icy turning.
Water freezes in the well’s dark depths
and far away a Lullay whimpers in the briars, then is gone,
and standing at the high end of the darkened Hall
we see this season in its truth.
It wears a crown of bone and shale.
Chris Michaelides was born in a village that gradually became an outer London suburb. She now lives in as small and remote a village in East Anglia as is compatible with the daily journey to work. Music and time to look around are precious.
here I am
in a quiet room
writing these words
in a diary I never keep
here alone in December
writing in May
time is not a relevant factor
the when of these words
can be forgotten
so place can be factored out as well
the only significant things
are this ink
on this paper
and your eyes
on these words
Reuben Woolley: born Chesterfield, 1952, now living in Spain, started writing poetry in 1968 – 6 poems published in Numbers 2 – 6 of Candelabrum Magazine, Volume1 1971/72. For reasons he is ashamed to confess, stopped writing in 1980s. Now writing again and determined to continue.