This winter, like all before…: A poem 

This winter can take me slowly 

into the voids of its pain 

its cold like a scalding flame. 

And I have no inclinations 

to lick my wounds over 

like a feral cat that’s lost 

its taste for itself 

I am no stranger to compassion 

but a widow to passion 

Unlike a woman who resurrects her first love 

in every man that she meets 

The night, that is dizzy with waking 

leaks into an agonising day 

Those eggs from my tired womb 

are not kindly forthcoming 

They are simply not cracking open 

And their unrelenting blankness 

resembles the barrenness of too many prior winters 

where only the longitudes of brass tacks… 

of simply getting on with it 

took my spirit from pole to pole