Tag Archives: winter

Bone, bird and air

beauty, England, nature, poem, Poetry, Wild life, winter, , , , , ,

Bone, bird and air
conspire to create grace
joy, a tumbling skydance
life exuberant, bright
triumphant over cold and hunger
here this icy winter day
knitted in those bones
are genes we share
we each breath the air
but only she flies
painting her joy onto the sky
cavorting into heaven

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Winter Dance

history, poem, Poetry, winter, , , , , , ,

The long dance of winter
starts slow as starlight
children stamping hard cold ground
cracking ice over peat

Slipping through fog’s silence
the women have donned heavy antlers
to creep around the trees
circle the swamp
clasp hands and spin
as the sun spins and turns
so do they

Men spurt from the longhouse
Pelts moist with sweat
Leap and cry out

Songs build to a crescendo again and again
until the true sun reveals herself
and we put out our puny fires
sit
eat
laugh

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

I haven’t written a poem imagining our pre-historic ancestors for a long while. Others on this blog can be found at:

https://thecheesesellerswife.wordpress.com/2019/01/30/crafty-eyes-see-the-deer-2/

https://thecheesesellerswife.wordpress.com/2019/06/22/the-aurochs-and-the-pink/

https://thecheesesellerswife.wordpress.com/2019/08/07/we-live-on-the-high-ground-2/

 

Fireworks over England (Penny for the Guy)

England, history, Life, poem, Poetry, winter, , , , , , , , ,

Flying across England on Fawkes night,
peering down onto fiery blooms
sending light into the night,
bright chrysanthemums burnt to celebrate failed terrorism.
Fireworks and neighbourhood bonfires spark and glow each November
in long and splendid tradition, now organised and commercial.

But where is my Guy Fawkes?
Built each childhood year from old clothes stuffed with straw,
wheeled around the street, “Penny for the Guy please?”,
burnt on the family bonfire amid fireworks bought with the proceeds of my begging.
Tradition lost in a land that wants to go back on itself once more.

We also used to play in the Trafalgar Square fountains,
splashing in icy midwinter,
kissing Policemen at the stroke of midnight,
fraternity with authority on the turn of the year.
Now crowds buy tickets to watch fireworks over the Thames, passively.
We no longer make our own festivals, they are arranged for us.

We need to take back the small anarchies,
set off Fireworks in our own gardens in November,
burn the Guy as effigy of all we are told to be frightened of,
embrace the neighbours, we are all in this together.
Whatever colour or creed.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

 

Tonight, we British celebrate Bonfire Night  with fireworks and large bonfires.  The tradition of burning an effigy of Guy Fawkes on the bonfire has all but disappeared.  We also don’t tend to set off our own fireworks in our gardens anymore, but go to large neighbourhood displays.

Of course, the classic poem, that we all learnt when very young, is:

Remember, remember!
The fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot;
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Summer

Life, nature, poem, Poetry, summer, winter, , , , , ,

Heart broken she withdraws
as every winter
into dark soil
lets warmth seep from all

The promise of the stars nightly turning
the sinking and turning of constellations
the track of planets wandering  across the sky
says that she will return

Time past she was encouraged
by midwinter fires
now we trust to orbital mechanics

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Snowfall

beauty, poem, Poetry, winter, , , , ,

Constable mirrors move
continually from light to dark
ever modulating apparent form
as the sun beyond
tries to pierce their hazy layer
parting it from the cool beauty
of the rolling opalescence below.

But the white motes now thin and slow their descent
becoming weary of motion
seeking quiet and rest
among their forerunners who now
lie on the cold earth
waiting for warmth to free them
for yet further journeys.

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond