Café Crem

Art, Music and Words around The Coffee Table

Retreat

Last weekend I saw the very first snowdrops peeping through the cold earth. Not open yet by any means, but the tightly furled waxy white flowers are up above ground now and that, for me, is the very start of Spring. It’s Imbolc at the weekend, the original Celtic festival of Brigit, and this heralds the start of spring. Imbolc means Ewe’s milk and basically means the start of the agricultural year with the onset of lambing. I’ve helped out at lambing once or twice and even though I’ve only done stuff like pass things to the shepherd (before you ask, I’ve never(yet) had my hand up a sheep’s bottom) I have found it a powerful experience. Where we used to live Nigel used to do a special service for the first lambs, followed by a slap-up supper at the farm of Shepherd’s Pie! The focus here is marine, not pastoral and I rather miss the bawling of new lambs.

The following poem is part of a cycle of poems written about the whole of the year; this is the very first of the spring cycle.

Retreat

 

The fields of endless white

Spread further than the eye can see,

Grim mountains of jagged grey,

Still clad in silken swathes of snow,

The air so crisp is tastes of glass

And fills my mouth with blood.

A scent of stones fills the air,

Old and cold as passing time.

The crunch of paws though ice,

Breath like steaming clouds,

A stench of passing death,

The brush of icy whiskers

As Winter’s bear retreats.

I stand alone on the snowfield.

 The trickle of the starting thaw

A quiet chuckle at the passing

Of the season’s snow bear

And the merriment of the new.

by Viv

 

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January 27, 2009 - Posted by | animals, Cafe Literati, life, literature, personal, poetry, Viv's Poetry, women, writing | , , , , , , , ,

5 Comments »

  1. This was a tough one for me! I had to look at many words in my new dictionary online.
    After Psych’s photo and your poem I feel totally frozen now!
    Wonderful poem though, and I especially loved

    “A scent of stones fills the air,
    Old and cold as passing time…”

    Comment by Miki | January 27, 2009

  2. Ta!
    It’s actually the record of a dream I had, more or less transcribed the next day into a poem. It isn’t exactly Xanadu though. But my involvment with opium is much less than Coleridge’s; merely white tablets with codeine in, not the sweet and dreamy poppy smoke.

    Comment by viv66 | January 27, 2009

  3. I’m enjoying the consonants in this poem.

    Comment by sittingpugs | January 27, 2009

  4. Viv, we certainly share a very strong connection to nature. I so love this poem, I could feel myself walking out there. My favorite lines:

    The air so crisp is tastes of glass

    And fills my mouth with blood.

    Comment by psychscribe | January 28, 2009

  5. I am so glad you liked it, Psychscribe! Thank you!

    Comment by viv66 | January 28, 2009


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