Winter's Story (Poetry)
04th November 2012
He didn’t tell her what he knew
she already knew —
or sensed — or feared —
they left the words unspoken that long summer —
he wheeled her round the lake
and she, intent on hiding
what she could of pain
talked of other things — the flinch inside
stifled — that bad dream denied again.
They laughed — played childish games —
braved the coming dark —
like the nightmare could be so outrun
he pushed her through September’s park —
each noticing the turn of leaves
their brittleness — and how the breeze
towards evening found a sharper edge
like a cold whispered warning.
She thinned with cloud and greyed into November
her smile without much warmth — a feeble sun —
the effort drained credulity — her lips were
used to spontaneity not lying —
and as silence grew with shadows touching distance
her eyes told Winter’s story one last time.
she already knew —
or sensed — or feared —
they left the words unspoken that long summer —
he wheeled her round the lake
and she, intent on hiding
what she could of pain
talked of other things — the flinch inside
stifled — that bad dream denied again.
They laughed — played childish games —
braved the coming dark —
like the nightmare could be so outrun
he pushed her through September’s park —
each noticing the turn of leaves
their brittleness — and how the breeze
towards evening found a sharper edge
like a cold whispered warning.
She thinned with cloud and greyed into November
her smile without much warmth — a feeble sun —
the effort drained credulity — her lips were
used to spontaneity not lying —
and as silence grew with shadows touching distance
her eyes told Winter’s story one last time.