Winter Sundays

We know each year it comes to us
Darkness, to bright cold winter days
The greens become a golden yellow
Before bareness reveals ageing old oaks
Yet cousins stay that darker luscious green 
And brave red berries are to be born again
In time for their festive December displays

Birds, squirrels, foxes and rats still search
To find enough to live in our way 
Close enough, but not as our prey
In gardens silent without bees at work
The warmth of staying inside my home
Hiding from what I know is still out there
Sundays were better when I used to Pray

Today I have been working on the future
In my mind and in your dreams to 
To make them true for us to live in winter
And know summer will bless our faces
When we kiss in the early morning together  
Bodies entwined in the sheets that cooled
Instead of blankets to encase our darkness 

beeskisseslovepraySundayWinter

◄ Bells of Time

Feedback Mode (Why are the nails pointing outwards from that coffin?) ►

Comments

Big Sal

Tue 18th Dec 2018 00:43

The darkest of seasons and the gloomiest of days. The title is great and the substance does not disappoint.👍

Profile image

Martin Elder

Sun 16th Dec 2018 22:37

A wonderful poem made all the better for hearing you read it Andy. Although to be fair because I have heard you read so many times it is not difficult to imagine. there is a real richness in this piece
Love it

Profile image

AM Cash

Sun 16th Dec 2018 13:21

Feedback welcome

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message