The Rising

A low gray sky enforces

the oppression of winter. Its hold won’t break

until the 'rising; 'til then all wait

for the time to be right, ripe, ready:

for revolution.

These are the allies: green shoots camouflaged

in the mould of last year’s leaves; rain; western winds.

The leader is the charismatic sun

without whose warmth, intensity,

nothing is possible.

I, poor writer, have been imprisoned

by the old regime. Abused by

the malevolence of ice, deprived of light,

How can I maintain the faith

that all this hierarchy of cold

could ever melt away?

Lees Pond

The pond ice won’t crack

despite the day’s warmth; it needs

lengthy persuasion.

Two kayakers stop –

flash of yellow, blue, surprised

paddle tapping ice.

Then they go, leaving

the imperturbable swans

alone with the cold.