Tag Archives: winter

Winter Cocktail


At cocktail hour when summer fails
bright colours vacate to the Mediterranean
Skies slide into leaden grey,
grumpily gunning to fulfil a bleak threat of rain,
their perfidious clouding slyly announcing
that dusk is well on its way.

Brittle twigs cling to knotted limbs.
Catatonic in the bitter air,
their scribbled criss-crosses laid bare,
bereft of the layered frock that veiled
the bland dwellings which crouch, blind-eyed
beneath my lofty window.
Spring’s brave growth crumbles to mulch,
all pride, grace and levity faded away,
its flesh consumed for future gain.

I pause mid-thought, my mind
resorting to fantasy:
might these spectral skeletons recall
to make safe hiding places for fledgling birds?
Perhaps they remember saluting the June day sun
their emerald hands swaying in celebration,
and nudged by a temperate summer wind
dancing, jiving, twirling.
Perhaps they relive
the betrayal, the brittle break,
the skittering fall.
Maybe they grieve, and yearn
the loss of green youth.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Winter’s Chill


The keen wind
is too sly to be seen,
too stubborn to be warmed.
It claws around corners and fast-closed doors,
slips through cracks behind the skirting board,
clambering at my knee caps as never before,
grabbing my bones in its freezing hands,
creeping up my nose,
nipping my toes,
deep into my marrow.

I’m looking for  a loophole
in nature’s laws,
a me-sized loophole
through which I can crawl
away from the misery of Winter’s chill
and into the dawning of a glorious Spring.


©Jane Paterson Basil