An atavistic wind has found
the building and the fluted eaves
to channel images eluding
words and music, strings and keys.
In its imagery are echoes from afar,
the desolate and howling
gorges of the North; trees
muted beneath snow's white weight.
You told me, soon after we met,
how winter sealed your eyelashes
with icicles, and snowstorms pawed
with mindless force at rough log walls.
Your skin would crawl at intermittent
cries of wolves in search of prey,
the tempest sweeping blindly across
lost graves of the nameless slain.
Ekaterinburg at sixteen,
a bowl of bitter tea like bile
the only thing to thaw your fists,
blizzard as your lullaby.
Shadows, stalking as before,
dark muzzles trained toward your door:
you contemplate the chain of risk
portending perils yet in store.
In the maw of winter
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109070601367
Свидетельство о публикации №109070601367
Рецензии
The winter aye had its own way,
and its own wheat and wine,
so many regards from one
who sits in Ekaterinburg today,
at twenty-zero-nine,
under the chilly sun.
Люпус 17.07.2009 12:11 • Заявить о нарушении
and its own wheat and wine,
so many regards from one
who sits in Ekaterinburg today,
at twenty-zero-nine,
under the chilly sun.
Люпус 17.07.2009 12:11 • Заявить о нарушении
Greetings from tropical Australia, where the sun is not so chilly!
Jena Woodhouse 18.07.2009 09:03 Заявить о нарушении
Jena Woodhouse 18.07.2009 09:03 Заявить о нарушении
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