Winter Aconites by Val Pedrick

 This piece of writing first appeared on the blog in January 2021

credit: Wikipedia

 snagged flurries

veil an old pear tree

with the suffocating

shroud of a final winter

 

ebony talons

rake brooking skies

search for borrowed blue

scraps of summer

 

gnarled digits

knuckle ivory drifts

clutch golden goblets

of mulled memories

 

frosted branches phantom

sprigged spring blossom

through snow’s coverlet

gilded promises gleam

 

Winter Aconites

brighten dark days

their glowing lanterns

herald new beginnings 

(Val Pedrick nee Plante: first published 2003, edited 2014)

Snowstorm by Adam Rutter

The bulbous silvery ball

Shiny coating

Mirror like reflection

Curves the window

Snowflakes contour the curves

Sliding down like bubbles in wine glass

Flakes spin and twirl in wind

Water filled snowstorm

Snow shaken in glass ball

Falls to the bottom

Snowflake after snowflake

Piles on top of one and other

Building a white wall

Reaching up to window sill

Conifer trees bulging out from the sides

Branches whitened with powder

Storm Garrit by Adam Rutter

Midnight

Listen silence

Fireworks

Boom crack screams sizzles

 

Watch hour hand

Everybody counts down

Cheering

Clapping

Colours paint air

Rockets open handkerchiefs

Show magic

Colours splash London Eye

 

It's morning

Streets quiet

Neighbourhood sleeps

 

Winter

Storm Garrit rages

Punches trees

Clouds burst

Rain drenches earth

Lightning flares up night sky

Thunder blasts

Wi-Fi blows out

The End Maybe? by Elizabeth Obadina

The day was cold and getting dark. Inside the thickness of my thermal and waterproof mitts the tips of my fingers were numbing as my damp, sweat-drenched gloves began to freeze. I watched as distant grey cloud began curling down the slopes, muffling all noise, swallowing the last shards of daylight; enshrouding the harsh neon floodlight meant to counter the arctic night. I felt very alone. Very conscious of the fact that once the cloud rolled over me, I would have no idea which way to go. I would be lost and all too likely I would die.

I was quite comfortable lying in the hollow I had tumbled into. I wasn’t cold yet as it had taken me considerable effort and exertion to even get this far. My blood was still pumping around my body, I could hear it in my head, feel it in my chest and my breath was warm, condensing on the scarf covering my mouth and nose to form frost crystals. I had lost my goggles in the fall and my eyelids felt heavy, weighed down by icy eyelashes.

When Winter leaves Chelmarsh by Irena Szirtes

Do I alone mourn Winter when we welcome in the Spring?

     I miss jackdaw fly-bys at dusk;

     Dawn-black trees, against seared sky

     Like pathways in a brain,

     And sheep's breath, soft-blown

     To air so fierce it soaks my bones

     Like dry desolate water.

     I miss leaves staring from ice 

     Like Millais' Ophelia, open-eyed,

     Wordless in water, disturbing me

     When I was small;

     And sky-sloughed cloud,

     Melting gravestones, conjuring 

     Vicarage turrets little by little,

     Painting it’s own gothic novel.

     I miss starched sunflowers,

     Rank upon rank, like spindly statues 

     Guarding their commander's tomb,

     As birdsong drills the cold,

     Prickling and puncturing my ears.

     I miss the starting victory 

     Of sudden winter sun,

     Firing light-shocks through 

     Tangles of dark branches,

     And winds, worrying and whistling

    At the Bull's Head door.

    But then I see catkins braving 

    Bare stems, and tiny buds tight-shut.

    Snowdrops flitter in a slicing breeze,

    Lambs suckle, afterbirths shrivel,

And I'll be mourning Winter, while welcoming the Spring.

Skies - a tanka by Irena Szirtes

 

Summer Skies                                                                                                   credit Irena Szirtes

Larks, raised on song, melt

Into summer sky and stone-

drop into silence.

Winter jackdaws hunker on

trees black-laced against steel skies. 

Winter Skies     credit Irena Szirtes

Moment by Irena Szirtes

The valley where I was born.                                                                                            credit Irena Szirtes

    My red terrier, and a moment on Frostrow Fell.          

Sting-soft kisses

slide into meltdown

over our faces,

as the sky falls

through steel silence.

Even my terrier waits,

not wiry, or raring to run,

loath to sully whiteout

with our footsteps.

Bent Dali-like

over Frostrow,

snowfall drapes hills

and, hunkering low

across peat-bogs,

smothers reeds, slides

into blackened streams.

We feel invisible,

melting into landscape;

fells terraform inside of me,

as influential as ancestors

in shaping who I am.

Suddenly wild geese

scissor the snowfall,

mesmerising, wild, as

their thin song echoes

my emergent sense of being.

 

Many days meld

into subconscious soup:

Not that day.

That day, decades behind,

is a piece of eternity

snatched from heaven,

scooped into linear time:

a fragment of gold in my pocket

to feel and finger secretly,

or pull out and look at

again, and again.

My red terrier                                                                credit Irena Szirtes

 

I call him Ahmed by Jennie Hart

 It’s bitter cold

Frost on roof and paving

My heart is full of sorrow

And guilt

After speaking to a young man

On the street

Craving for a shower

A bed to sleep on

He itched his hair and skin

 

He was from Syria

I did not ask his name

I call him Ahmed

Ahmed means praiseworthy

 

We have a shower

A bath

A spare bed

Rooms we never use

Hot water

Towels

Duvets

We could offer comfort

Keep him well fed

 

But I didn’t make the gesture

I was scared to share my comfort

Afraid of what might follow

If I welcomed in a stranger

What if he didn’t fit into our lives?

And wished to stay after tomorrow?

 

I gave him money

He took my hand

Rested it on his forehead

Brushed my fingers against his lips

Bowed his head

 

I said goodbye

Wished him luck

 

 Ahmed gave me love

What did I give?

Winter Rains by Irena Szirtes

Don't hide from winter rains,

don't cower behind doors!

Let raindrops 

scatter on your face and

tangle in your hair,

let rain cool your fingers,

may it slide down shoulders

till they shine!

Walk out into fields,

stretch your arms and turn-

Breathe!

Breathe whole circles of 

rain-stained colours,

breathe mists dancing 

from balding crop fields!

Share the air the foxes breathe,

foraging in the rain.

Laugh!

Jump puddles!

Dodge ballooning drops

as they ambush from

breeze-blown branches,

tramp squelched leaves

packed dank on badger trails.

Look!

Catch a flash of deer butt

disappearing, see wayward drops 

as they begin to tilt 

from skeletons of bracken

long browned. 

See people hurry,

scuttling home to hide,

holding hats, dodging

puddles once smashed, 

stamped, loved, splashed.

And if rain rages,

watch it hammering,

hear it roar!

But when raging stills,

may rain dance on your hood:

gentle fingery rhythms 

will help you comprehend 

rain has been much libelled.

Don't cower behind doors:

feel, breathe, walk, laugh-

don't run, don't rush for home!

Let raindrops 

scatter on your face and

tangle in your hair-

don't hide from winter rains!

Blowing up a Snowstorm by Adam Rutter

Among the Rocky Mountains of Alberta in Canada, a long passenger train wound through wooded valleys, turning precariously round tight bends. The train crossed a steel frame viaduct, spanning a deep gorge. The snow blizzard caused poor visibility, making it impossible for the driver to see railway signals ahead. This forced the driver to slow down. Even going at thirty miles an hour, snowflakes struck the cabin window. As the train zigzagged between snow-capped peaks, the border of British Columbia was crossed. Through a tunnel, the passengers endured a quarter of an hour of darkness. After emerging from the other side, the snowy landscape was too bright to look at. The train stopped. A wall of snow blocked a railway cutting. The snow was so deep, it was impossible to see beyond it. There were four hundred passengers on board. Most had come from Montreal. Some literally jumped on board along parts of the line in Ontario because there were two rural stations without a platform. The majority were traveling to Vancouver. But their journey was cut short by severe weather conditions. They were many miles from the nearest town. Snowflakes drifted in the wind. The wind was heard howling above the noise of the engine. Snow drifts streaked across the carriage windows. The passengers were alone in this cold remote landscape. In the fourteenth and fifteenth carriages closest to the engine were students traveling to Vancouver, to study at university. A number of them sat round nearly every table in these two carriages, whereas only six remaining had three. One had two. Christina sat on the inside seat; her head leaning against the window, looking solemnly at snow drifting past the coniferous covered slope. The faint sound of music emanating from her earbuds was audible to the person sitting on the other side of the gangway. She had glossy black hair that covered her right arm, while the other part hung over her left shoulder. Her jumper was as dark as her eyes; a sleeve almost covering her hand. Christina had turned eighteen. She lived in Quebec, and this was the first time she had travelled to a remote corner of Canada since she left high school. Sat opposite was a young man. His name was Alex. He was 21, from Newfoundland. His short black hair was gelled. He wore black jeans and a grey tee shirt. His thumbs were tapping on the screen on his iPhone, texting his mother about the holdup on the line. For the first time since Alex began the epic journey, he took his eyes off the screen, looked at Christina, and smiled. She grimaced. His face dropped, still looking at her while she was gazing out through the window. His eyes shifted between the screen and Christina. Her eyes flashed at him.

‘What,’ she demanded.

‘Nothing,’ said Alex, trying to feign bewilderment.

‘What!’

‘Nothin’!’

‘Well stop staring at me then.’

‘I’m not staring at you.’

‘You are.’

Those Bitter Winters by Jennie Hart

Olive once had pretty hands, but not anymore.

‘Our bodies were an adornment we took for granted’, she mused.

‘‘‘Youth is wasted on the young; your smooth skin, your firm body, they won’t last you 

know”; that’s what my mother used to say’, she said to her friend Margaret and they laughed.

‘Did your mother know she was quoting George Bernard Shaw?’ asked Margaret.

‘I doubt it’ said Olive.

Olive’s hands were puffy and painful; her fingers were swollen and the gold band on her ring finger, sat in a tight groove, overwhelmed by the surrounding pulpy flesh. 

She once read that this digit on the left hand was linked to the heart by an artery and she had liked that romantic notion. Her mother had believed that wearing gold gave protection from all manner of harm, but a tragedy in Olive’s life gave her doubts. 

She had read that gold prevented black energy entering the body and that the belief came from Ancient China, India and Persia. Gold opened up the crown chakra warding off evil powers. She knew what a chakra was, Hercule Poirot had mentioned them as energy centres to be kept open and balanced. Olive hadn’t known about the crown chakra but a little more reading had showed it to be the seventh chakra located at the top of the head; it helped humans reach a higher state of consciousness, but she wasn’t sure how.

She told Margaret who said it was all a bit too mystical for her. 

‘I’m sure my mother didn’t go in for all that’ thought Olive.

Winter by Jayne Amanda Burford

The tightness of breathing in the minus cold air

As we shiver against the frostiness

Fingers and toes tingle as the temperature seeps

Faces burn, so cold we can’t speak.

 

But with the winter, comes Christmas time

Merriment and merrymakers, the excitement does build

families, little children, granny’s & grandpa’s

The big plannings to unfold.

Behave cry the mothers, or Santa will be told!

 

But with all good times come memories from old

A little guilty at times, if our truths do be told

Raise a glass to those memories

Look up to the sky’s

Close your eyes for one moment.

Open up your mind’s eye

Have a break from that torment

For they are here, right beside you

They walk by your side, smiling and laughing

Then silently waving goodbye.

Winter Haiku by Sue Akande

illustration: John Bowler

A flicker of red -

A robin at my feeder

Brightens winter gloom. 

A Broken Silence by Elizabeth Obadina

Nothing moved. Steel grey skies hung over steel grey seas. The bullfinches and great tits whose antics he’d been watching since the Jul[i] festivities had ended had deserted the now stripped julenek[ii] and disappeared into a tangle of bare branches weighted down by frozen snow. 

Suspended at the end of an icicle, a glob of water refused to fall. The world seemed to be holding its breath. Life felt in limbo in January 2023.

Somewhere in the house the thud, thud, thud of meltwater dripping on to wooden boarding drummed; incessant, urgent, like the heartbeat of something living straining to break through its icy restraints.

“If only they had listened,” the old man thought as he listened to the thudding beat and remembered long-departed lovers, old friends and neighbours who had all lost their faith.

Un-brrr-lievable: Tis the season to be freezin’ isn't it? By Kath Norgrove

Winter portrays images of snow on the ground, and frost in the air. It is always cold or always seems cold. The dry, crisp, cold sunny days are beautiful but the arduous task of scraping the frost off the car in the dark isn't so.

 

However, today is so different. 2022 was recorded as being the warmest year on record and 2023 is starting to look like it might try and beat that. It is mild today after very, very heavy rain which has left a lot of standing water and very soggy ground. I think we have finally topped up our underground water – and more so. The river is certainly up!

 

I am sat outside in early January, not even wearing a coat, having lunch. The rain has stopped, the sun is out, there are blue skies and the temperatures are mild for the time of year. I can hear the birds singing in the trees. There is a light breeze but it's not cold; it's chilly but not cold, like you'd expect for this time of year and the trees are rustling as if in agreement.

 

Occasionally there is a little gust of wind that is cold, but it's to be expected. There's buds coming out on trees and shrubs; they should be dormant. I glance at the blackcurrant bush with lots of buds on it – far too early. However, the Jasmine is flowering a vibrant yellow colour but it's a winter flowering plant so I would expect to see it do that. I sit for a while pondering that. I like my winters served warm, but well, not that warm. I shouldn't be sat here without a coat on but it's not that cold. As soon as the sun goes behind the trees, it's going to be chilly but it's still not really cold. 

God Jul 2010 by Elizabeth Obadina

The snow had fallen thickly overnight. All along the street the houses were draped in festive lights, twinkling LED icicles and sparkling stars. There was nothing gaudy, no blow-up Father Christmases, no Christmas strobes piercing the starlit sky, no pulsating light shows. Nothing like that for this was Norway where, at the beginning of December, most Norwegian homes hang a star-shaped lamp in their windows, called “Julestjerne” or “Adventsstjerne” to symbolise the Christmas star which had guided the three wise men to the baby Jesus. There were also red, wooden candelabras with seven electric candles placed in other windows  to provide comforting beacons of light throughout the long dark nights of the northern mid-winter. They are now quite common in the UK but not so in 2010 when we enjoyed our first everyone-together family Christmas in Norway.

On this Christmas morning our house was slowly waking up.  Although it was nearly 9am it was still pitch dark outside and our baby grandchildren had yet to reach the age of waking up in frenzied excitement early, early, oh SO early on Christmas morning to check whether Santa had paid them a visit. That joy was yet to come in future years – mainly in England. This year was a magical one: watching the two-year old’s wonder of all things Christmassy, enjoying the baby’s discovery of wrapping paper and most of all feeling so happy and contented as the littlest ones of our family basked in the love and attention of newly met uncles and aunts. We were all together, and later on that day our ranks would swell with the hustle and bustle of visiting Norwegian grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. But as we stood looking out of the window, cradling cups of breakfast tea and waiting for the sun to rise all was calm and very peaceful.

On cue, two deer walked sedately up the middle of the street. They left deep tracks in the freshly fallen snow.