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GREY WINTER

In puddles
trees walked slowly along beside me
their heads low in the grey winter morning,
no breeze stirred,
no shiver of light.

A bland white glow from the dawn
reflected my eye, its tear,
that softly slid down my cheek to my mouth,
sustenance to trembling lips
drawn and sad.

Withered leaves hung limp,
flowers shrivelled and pale,
grasses bleached straws,
the flight of a black crow
aimlessly flapping.

The distant sound of a curlew,
cries on the hills
a sudden sharp searing screech
from a machine.

A broken instrument
hollowed and cracked
awaiting the blast of storms;
dark nights and driving clouds
across the moon,
obliterating the sun.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Last few words: 
Always the dull heavy grey weather affects my brain. I am not sad. Ann.
Editing stage: 

Comments

A single moment, description only. Elegant. wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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Very descriptive of both surroundings and state of mind...................stan

sharing Ma'am

loved

The feel of the winter is conveyed here with great care as if almost a cold death reach out to embrace ones soul.
This was sort of dark from you, but I guess that winter has it's place in the universe so as to remind us of the warmth of spring. It is only at the next bend waiting for us.

Eddie

LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE

Thank you all, Eddie, Winter has this feel you here describe so well, a sadness in the colours and the hanging dead leaves that still cling to their twigs and straws, a brittle delicacy, as if they would become nothing at the slightest touch. But then when the sun shines on the lumps of snow on their seed pods they can be laughed at for looking so cocky.

Just today there was a red plastic sack and a wound blue tubing, they looked like two people the tall blue one upright, a bit like a Christ with his robe, and the bent little red one a bit like a dwarfed Santa; when I came close they were just objects, but they caused an exciting imagined pair.

So humour is just round the corner in our minds!

Ann

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

Thank you for a glimpse of part your world. I loved the somber imagery and these lines:
A broken instrument
hollowed and cracked
awaiting the blast of storms;
dark nights and driving clouds
across the moon,
obliterating the sun.

have no fear, sweet Ann, spring will always come.

always, Cat

When you fling poo, some of the stink sticks to you!

"The Book of Styx" can be ordered and purchased on line at:
http://eddystyx.mythramuse.com/

I have no fear, in fact the sombre and subtle colours
of Winter's moods interests and fascinates me,

I would not wish myself where the sun shines all the time,
and the trees stay dressed as they do in parts of Australia.

My aunt went into raptures on seeing the bare trees once again,
having married an Australian (conductor) and lived there most of her life.

Perhaps the changes of season also help us to change
and renew ourselves, and our poetry to do likewise.

Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

Anni. mi piace tutta la tua poesia, sai? Ma questa qui è propria 'na bellezza.

Il Longobardolino

Miile grazie Il Longobardolino.
Anni.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

I bet you are. wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

Caro Wes,

Certo di no ! Ma mi pare un' ottima idea [RISATE (LOL) ]
[Of course not. But it sounds like a great idea :LOL]

Giuseppe Bernardo Giovanni Longo casa Geremia = Joe

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