Formal Poetry and other idiosyncrasies
  • Home Page
  • Shakespeare
  • Weaknesses
  • The Fall of Man
  • Poem of the Moment
  • Poetry about Maps
  • Poetry about gardens
  • Poetry about science
  • Winter
  • Shopping
  • Love Poetry
  • Poetry about Craft
  • Family Planning
  • Secrets
  • Computing
  • Poems about Relationships
  • Comic Poems
  • Poems about the Arts
  • A Woman's Lot
  • People
  • War Poetry
  • Possibilities
  • Questions
  • Poetry about jobs
  • CHRISTMAS
WINTER AT ABERBACH
Keen frost has traced the pebbles on this beach,
tracked down salt seaweed, placed under arrest
bronzed bracken, dead as last year.  No inquest
follows his noiseless handcuffs; he can reach
into the caves of darkness and impeach
rock strata, drips; he makes his own laws, tests
their iciness against the soft gull's breast.
They're hard and fast. I hear a feathered screech
and gather driftwood in my painful hands,
look back at muted colours, darkening cliffs.
I must go home at once: my watch is cold
with warnings that the white bird understands;
my arms are huddled wings, my fingers stiff
as talons in the joker's stranglehold.



To return to the Home Page click here






Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.