Bitter Cold

Big freeze continues as snow hits British coast

The Telegraph, 2 February 2012

I

And yesterday, my lost one's birthday,

far to the north though not far enough

and more a ghost than a child these days,

discovering, at last, her own rearing pain.

II

From farther still the roll of rain,

cold rain, on a Perspex drum-skin roof,

and over the din a happy crackle,

leaping flames of laughter casting

long, flighty shadows you would

take for real, but for the absence

of human warmth. I am in a depression.

There is air rushing in from the Atlantic;

its warmth, its wetness invites its ruin,

and sure it's met as it rollicks down

the chalky, grassy lees of the Chilterns

by a killer's embrace blown in from the east.

Its tears spiral down as snowflakes

as any fool could have told you they would.

Now wiser voices speak and fools

stay silent, or they trade indulgences

for petty change, eternity in Heaven

for another priceless night right here.

III

But I'm not here at all, see me

on Hastings beach two children and

one wife ago. My parents, both

of them, are here on the beach, in the snow,

eager to reassemble their son,

or at least to tuck my guts back in.

Feel the smooth rounded stones

under the soles of our thin shoes,

feel the burn chill the balls

of our feet. We stand on icy coals.

Marvel at the frozen shore.

The sky, vast and frosted, reflects

the phosphorescent snow-capped peaks

of distant black-moated waves.

Angels have yet to fall from that sky.

But perhaps the chill is here and now,

the entropy of my memories the cause

of this unforgivable loss of fidelity.

IV

In Prague, the tenderest sight: a mother,

a frozen thread of milk strung

from suckling infant to weeping breast.

Her story, otherwise commonplace,

just one meagre clipping in this winter's

album. This cold is set to last.

My father is safe on a hospital cancer ward

waiting patiently for a lost and familiar face.

He tries in vain to recall its features plainly.

And there's a beggar outside Barclays Bank

sitting cross-legged under the cash dispenser;

pass him in the snow, he'll always be right there.

(c) 2012 Slush Poet