Category: Seasonal

Spring-Bringers

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Photo by Plato Terentev on Pexels.com

Spring-Bringers

When the daffodils go over
Then the Spring is on the way !
And though it’s sad to see the yellows wilt,
At least they had their day.
Once the clover is in clover,
Then the bulbs are all long done –
But Springtime has been built upon
Their early yellow sun.

When the bluebells have stopped ringing,
Then the Spring is truly here
And though it’s sad to see the mauve-lings fade,
At last they gave good cheer.
Once the tulips have stopped singing,
Then the bulbs have done their work –
And it’s time to let the first watch fade
And once more softly lurk.

Sun Bulbs

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Sun Bulbs

The daffodils are blooming
In my window-box again,
Just to show that Spring is looming
In the face of icy rain,
They sprout besides my sill once more
In planters perched on high,
As they cheer my second floor,
And bring a garden to the sky.

The daffodils are blooming
In my window-box again,
But they turn their heads from booming
Through the gloomy window-pane.
Instead, they stare at Winter Sun
Where all their real focus is.
I think next year, to stop the shun,
I’ll just grow crocuses.

First Day Back

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Photo by Borja Lopez on Pexels.com

First Day Back

The coffee shop is using-up it’s final snowflake cups,
But they feel like relics of another time.
The frost is colder now, yet the mornings maybe brighter somehow,
Though the streets are tinged with Winter grime.
As I approach my desk, there’s still a hint of picturesque,
As a few stray decorations dot-about.
But the chocolates have gone, and the dieting upon us,
As we all must learn once more to do without.
But at least we get to start the waiting year by looking smart,
That’s all courtesy of presents and the sales.
Though I gather by the sounds that the cold is on its rounds,
While the post-room brings a late card, postmark Wales.
My meeting-planner grows as my inbox overflows,
And the old year’s calendar goes in the bin –
As the phone are busy ringing and the copiers are singing,
And at last we fully let the new begin.

The Frost Fairs

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Frost Fair, 1684 by Henry Glindoni

The Frost Fairs

Once, when the Winter was colder,
And the Bridge more wall than hole,
So the River would stall and dawdle
Till the ice had won control.
And a brand new street through the heart of the city was born,
And paved in white,
Where the tents and the stalls and the elephant put their faith
In the Winter’s blight.
For days and days, as the ferries sat idle,
The waters were newly owned –
Though the surface was a rocky road of blocks
That creaked and groaned.
For the tide was never still,
Beneath this temporary town –
Till the breakup happened suddenly,
And dragged the slow ones down.
Yet for a week, the world was changed
For folks of ev’ry class,
As even in the bitter cold,
They’d promenade on mass.
But in the end, the thaw must come,
To even ice that’s strong –
And Midwinter festivities
Should not extend too long.

Fall Back

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Mystery of Time by Robert Zietara

Fall Back

The clocks are haunting Daylight Savings,
Goading us to stay in bed –
In late October, ancient cravings
Rear their bureaucratic head.
We skirt with time, we loop the sands,
Rewind once more the ancient rite –
We must perform the dance of hands
Upon the face of waning light.

The past is haunting Daylight Savings,
Logic lost to undead rules.
In late October, we’re the playthings
Of the limbo hour of fools.
We flirt with time, yet so habitual,
Barely offer an excuse –
We must perform the sacred ritual,
Stop all Hell from breaking loose.

Sports Lawns

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Photo by Matheus Oliveira on Pexels.com

Sports Lawns

Mow and roll and mark the lines
To hem the court and pen the pitch
In Summer’s crisp and white designs of old,
To show which end is which.
And who would dare to stray beyond
This canvas where we set our scene ?
We’re safe in here from blade and frond,
On alternating stripes of green.

Saints of a Lesser Rank

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St Valentine proudly bearing some anachronistic double roses. Thanks, AI…

Saints of a Lesser Rank

The names we give our churches
Are all bound by strange constraints –
There’s an unwritten convention
To the way we dole-out saints.
So every town must have its Mary,
And its James or Paul, if space,
And all the All Saints crowding altars
Ever since the days of Thrace.
But as for Valentine, whose name
Is just as big as these, or bigger –
On the street, this saint for couples
Cuts an oddly lonely figure.
P’raps to worship him on ev’ry Sunday,
Sending prayers above,
Must seem to stuffy vicars like indulgence,
Gorging weekly love…
Yet how can priests with vows of chastity
Behold this worldy man,
Who teaches us to worship with our bodies ?
Best to scoff, and ban…
And yet, on February nights,
And far from Canterb’ry or Rome,
We pilgrims come together in his name
At makeshift shrines at home.

I have previously discussed a preference for local saints over here.

Midnight Flurry

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Photo by Josh Hild on Pexels.com

Midnight Flurry

Snow fall at night,
So crisp and white
Beneath the silent streetlight –
This won’t last.

It falls in hush,
And looks so lush,
Yet is tomorrow’s mush
That melts too fast.

A brand-new gown
Upon the town
That won’t be buttoned-down,
But be off-cast.

Let’s take the chance
For one more glance
At the velvet-soft expanse,
Before it’s passed.

Winter Lows

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Photo by photos_by_ginny on Pexels.com

Winter Lows

Ev’ry time the waves of tired
Leave me drained and uninspired,
The nagging fear I just can’t shake
Is will I ever get to feel awake ?

Ev’ry time a freeze sets in,
I shiver in my fragile skin,
And all that I can think of then,
Is will I ever be made warm agen ?

Solo Traveller

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The Dark Pool by Laura Knight

Solo Traveller

Happy holiday, saddos !
In your needlessly double-rooms –
Honestly, single berths are only
For cots, and losers, and tombs.
Here’s your single-stayer supplement
To tax you for being alone
And your sad little single table
Where you silently scroll your phone.
Why did you even bother leaving home ?
Why do you care ?
What’s the point of meeting people
When you’ve nothing to share ?
Ah well, it’s all to our profit,
As you pass your gloomy weeks –
A mix of lonely spinsters
And asexual frigid freaks.
We do our best to rub it in, of course,
That’s always fun –
To let you know you’ve failed at life,
To holiday for one.
But in the end, you bring our other guests down
By being there,
You suck the sun right off the beach
With your self-contented air.