Cambridge, UK
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
PARSON’S FIELD IN WINTER
Dark fairy rings appear in the grass,
mushrooms, tiny, static, nuclear clouds,
explode from nowhere.
Autumn ends with storms and gales.
The creeping paralysis of winter
grips the field.
Winter comes, a heathen King,
crashing through the bare branches of the trees.
The grass already dying,
surrenders to the frost.
Brown cushions of dead grass,
like ancient prayer mats, wilt and rot.
The black branches of the hawthorn hedges
lay bare the secrets of spring nests.
January snow drifts in waves,
a stark, lunar landscape,
lit by a blood-red sun.
Dark fairy rings appear in the grass,
mushrooms, tiny, static, nuclear clouds,
explode from nowhere.
Autumn ends with storms and gales.
The creeping paralysis of winter
grips the field.
Winter comes, a heathen King,
crashing through the bare branches of the trees.
The grass already dying,
surrenders to the frost.
Brown cushions of dead grass,
like ancient prayer mats, wilt and rot.
The black branches of the hawthorn hedges
lay bare the secrets of spring nests.
January snow drifts in waves,
a stark, lunar landscape,
lit by a blood-red sun.
ST LUCY’S DAY
The shortest day
of a long year.
Only St Lucy’s light
to prevail against
the liquid dark.
From the far horizon
night rolls in
like the neap tide
flooding fields and cattle,
obliterating the individual,
drowning that lone oak
in dark anonymity.
In the pastures
sheep huddle,
backs to the driving
east wind’s chill.
In the slate quarry
a whirlpool of black
covers old scars.
From the refuge
of lighted rooms,
we look blindly
into our lost world.
MAGIC HOOVES
Unicorns pulled her sledge,
sliding elegantly through snow.
The Princess of the frozen North
sat wrapped in a cloud of white.
woven from polar bear hair.
Her crown of frost shone bright,
in the dark depths of the frozen night
where only twinkling stars shed light.
Her unicorns’ magical feet
left no indentations at all,
though they galloped so fleet.
Travelling towards the Pole,
to the great annual icicle ball,
they left not a sign of a hole
over the vast snowy waste,
not even the slightest trace.
Unicorns pulled her sledge,
sliding elegantly through snow.
The Princess of the frozen North
sat wrapped in a cloud of white.
woven from polar bear hair.
Her crown of frost shone bright,
in the dark depths of the frozen night
where only twinkling stars shed light.
Her unicorns’ magical feet
left no indentations at all,
though they galloped so fleet.
Travelling towards the Pole,
to the great annual icicle ball,
they left not a sign of a hole
over the vast snowy waste,
not even the slightest trace.
IN THE CLOUDS
Christmas Eve,
a scatter of snow.
Cold, very cold
as only the mountains
can be.
Darjeeling, midnight,
bells ringing,
ghosts of the Raj
dream in cold tombs
of lost Indian summers.
Kanchenjunga,
the sacred mountain
Her five peaks
the five treasures
of snow.
Salt, gold, jewels,
sacred scroll,
impenetrable armour,
guarded by
demons.
Christmas Eve,
a scatter of snow.
Cold, very cold
as only the mountains
can be.
Darjeeling, midnight,
bells ringing,
ghosts of the Raj
dream in cold tombs
of lost Indian summers.
Kanchenjunga,
the sacred mountain
Her five peaks
the five treasures
of snow.
Salt, gold, jewels,
sacred scroll,
impenetrable armour,
guarded by
demons.
BATTLES IN SNOW
Towton, Yorkshire, 1461
The morning is dark, sleet and snow
sweep across the battle field.
Proud archers, we face the ranks
of treacherous Yorkists.
An icy wind blows swirling snow
into my eyes, my mouth,
I cannot judge the flight.
The arrows do not fly true,
but fall short in thick black mud.
That traitor, snow, favours
the Yorkist thugs.
The snow storm carries
their arrows into Lancastrian ranks.
Twenty thousand men die today,
bodies, limbs, armour, horses
scarlet blood on white.
(Wars of the Roses,
1461 Battle of Towton
Yorkist leader becomes Edward IV
Largest number of British dead
in single Battle)
Towton, Yorkshire, 1461
The morning is dark, sleet and snow
sweep across the battle field.
Proud archers, we face the ranks
of treacherous Yorkists.
An icy wind blows swirling snow
into my eyes, my mouth,
I cannot judge the flight.
The arrows do not fly true,
but fall short in thick black mud.
That traitor, snow, favours
the Yorkist thugs.
The snow storm carries
their arrows into Lancastrian ranks.
Twenty thousand men die today,
bodies, limbs, armour, horses
scarlet blood on white.
(Wars of the Roses,
1461 Battle of Towton
Yorkist leader becomes Edward IV
Largest number of British dead
in single Battle)
THE SOMME FRONT
Christmas 1916
‘We crouch in shallow holes,
earth’s too brick hard for trenches.
Night on the front line, the world is frozen.
Shells bounce and slide over the surface.
Gordon Highlanders, in their tartan kilts,
legs bandaged to stop their knees freezing.
Ice on cups of tea shines in the cold moonlight.
My feet, frozen solid in my boots—
frozen blanket, frozen clothes, frozen drink.
Today my mate fell in a flooded shell hole,
I prayed he’d drowned quickly.
We look at the cold, neutral stars,
snow’s blowing from the north-east.
Even the war seems frozen.’
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
―Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland / Through the Looking-Glass
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah das Gupta for these fine seasonal poems today!
Christmas 1916
‘We crouch in shallow holes,
earth’s too brick hard for trenches.
Night on the front line, the world is frozen.
Shells bounce and slide over the surface.
Gordon Highlanders, in their tartan kilts,
legs bandaged to stop their knees freezing.
Ice on cups of tea shines in the cold moonlight.
My feet, frozen solid in my boots—
frozen blanket, frozen clothes, frozen drink.
Today my mate fell in a flooded shell hole,
I prayed he’d drowned quickly.
We look at the cold, neutral stars,
snow’s blowing from the north-east.
Even the war seems frozen.’
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
―Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland / Through the Looking-Glass
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah das Gupta for these fine seasonal poems today!
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