Something Wickedly …

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Something Wickedly White This Way Cometh!

14th November 2010 – 22nd January 2011

Frozen Beauty to Misery

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1

Winters’ Contrast

Crystal, the sky now is crystal blue,
Paleness created in reflection,
From icily covered grounds true,
Open window viewing is perfection,
Crisp airs filling up my lungs,
Pulling me short of warm breath,
Looking out upon this brilliant horizon,
At Mother Nature’s wintry death,

‘Tis hard to be cynical at such beauty,
Despite knowing as l do,
Its presence creates so much cruelty,
Upon the wildlife, many who will not see it through,
Sky can change so quickly before one’s eyes,
Within the merest of a blink,
Palest blue is suddenly disguised,
Into a shimmering of diluted pinks,

And from there as you watch again,
Changes it does, warning you now of doom,
Frighteningly the deepest of salmon,
Alerting you to an approaching snow storm,
Natures’ palette can change within hours,
True artistry disfiguring up above,
Myriad of colours blending in power,
Strokes of an invisible brush,

A touch of winter to be seen this day,
Dying pink, salmon and crimson hues,
Soundlessly driven away,
Replaced with dark greys and angry blues,
Within seconds they too, are no more,
Silver streaking clouds rush upon the edge,
And an eerie lighting ready to devour,
Has crept in silently like a rough sketch,

Darkened greyish black clouds gather,
Colours of beauty no longer before your eyes,
Skies above waiting to pounce like a panther,
Upon the grounds below with a hint of despise,
From crystal blue to aggressive blackened grey,
With beauty now a thing of the today’s past,
All this within a few hours of this cold, cold day,
So many changes, such is the way of winters’ contrast.

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2

Winters’ Heartbeat

Something white this way comes,
Dance she will under our feet,
And from her beauty we will succumb,
Can do nothing but fear winters’ heartbeat!

Falling snows are oft seen as romantic,
Soft glistening dusting storms,
Others again, see it as dramatic,
Whereas l view it as true art form,
Expressing its inner emotion,
Like romantics sharing new love,
Temperaments swirling in slow motion,
Settling upon lands like a silken glove,

Layers upon layers of fine flakes,
Greeting morning viewers to beauty,
Sprawling barren landscapes,
Misty and eerily and starkly moody,
Aching passions adorning bareness,
Dreamlike branches and boughs,
Snowy feelings making more look less,
Nature’s way of promising the vow,

A love story in early blossom,
Blinding fiercely at first,
Sexually charged and awesome,
Hunger quenching thirst,
Touch that burns to the soul,
Painfully caressing naked flesh,
Embracing all until whole,
Delightfully embellished!

If this is not an art, what is it then?
Such tranquil beauty upon first light,
Every fall, never the same again,
Try to recreate l might,
But this romanticism is pure,
Untouchable, love at first sight,
Desiring as l do, sense the allure,
Imagination alights!

Could one ever wish for this,
Moments in time of such beauty,
Such happiness and bliss,
Not to be for all of us truly,
But if love could be like fresh snow,
Without torment, nor disturbance,
Could it stay profound or sadly go?
Oh to dream of the non-stop dance!

When nature smiles upon our earth,
In such a way as this,
Should lovers anew not seek birth?
And chase after the happiness?
Why question the beauty of the fall,
Perhaps just admire from afar,
Walk within it, cloak and shawl,
Enjoying it before you say au revoir!

Staring in awe at raw isolation,
White skies, white lands just white,
Loving moments in times’ desolation,
Awarded to us from the night,
Pinpricked by blood red droplets,
Of shaken hawthorns by robins in search,
Like us, for something but not upset,
Just perhaps a dry perch,

Something white this way comes,
Dance she will under our feet,
And from her beauty we will succumb,
Can do nothing but fear winters’ heartbeat!

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3

Within Winters’ Grasp

Another freezing day l awaken to,
Dry bedding damp to the touch,
Cold air lingering anew,
No difference not by much,
To yesterday, last night or day before,
All days run as one now,
Each one a misery chore,
Just another excuse to wear a scowl,

Wintry snows, ice and the freezing,
Has an ill effect upon ones’ soul,
Similar to a deathly teasing,
And is a slow deprivation to being whole,
To many others it is a romantic ideal,
Freshly sewn snows upon musty ground,
Lovers of its splendour greet it with zeal.
Picturesque postcard scenery abound,

Easier for those living in comfort,
To admire with fascination its presence,
Greet it eagerly with a view to sport,
Playing, snowmen, sledging abandoning sense,
Undertaking in its icy pleasures,
Enjoying snowbound holidays,
Snowballing their way into a day’s leisure,
Children off school again – ‘Hooray!’

See not the anger within its hidden depth,
Or the perils that lie within the folly,
Frozen wastelands covered in icy breath,
Nor realizing that not all are jolly,
At this hardened icily covered beast,
Knowing too well through experience,
And eagerly awaiting its release,
Upon grounds screaming under its presence!

Living within the daily routine,
Of frozen lands upon the Shire fens,
I no longer pretend it is serene,
Just get up, get along and get finished again,
Wishing for other mundane weather clasps,
To appear upon the frozen horizon,
And releasing me from the winters’ grasp.

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© Rory Matier 2010/11

16 thoughts on “Something Wickedly …

  1. What beautiful poems to come out of such a challenging experience. Snow looks lovely when you can retreat to a warm place but the elements are unkind to those in an exposed position. Old caravans were not made for these conditions. It must have felt like the Antarctic.

    1. It was awful in truth, but a valuable lesson learned. The chain reaction was literally the cold inside l felt for years afterwards. I left there is October 2012, but was not able to mindfully feel warm until l guess 14 months ago.

  2. Your poetry through such adversity is truly amazing. I would say you stayed pretty darn positive to have written such beautiful piece of work. I can’t even fathom having to have gone through all that you endured.

    1. Hey Beckie, it’s something l wouldn’t wish on many people. There are a few, notably the landlords themselves, who had me constantly at the end of their beck and call fetching logs for their fire from the wood shed outside the back of their house. it made me laugh, a five minute walk from the little warmth l had to literally the back of their fully heated seven bedroomed house by their back French sliding doors.

      Mm, just the memory of that and a shudder runs through my mind.

        1. i think that is sometimes the way of the world though – they say that as well though don’t they, that when we are very low, our ‘poetry’ can sometimes be the best we have ever written.

  3. Lovely poems Rory, I know how you felt I’ve gone throw many a winter’s with inadoqwite clothing and living in a place were the heat is gone by the time the sun sets and you spend the night freezing, I’m glad you don’t have to go throw that anymore. ❤️✌️

    BY FOR NOW

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