The  poem January was published in Frogmore some years ago.


This is the long long day of silent winter.
No splashes in the pond.
No butterfly dusting white roses.
No children.
It is not cold.

I am cold.
Dreams are sparse trees
in this skeletal landscape
of the longest night of silent winter.
If  only
the sound of your fingers
striking a match under my skin
against the coming pain
of the longest day of silent winter.

Julie Sampson

No comments:

Post a Comment

Do send feedback on this blog.