Pleached limes
In the dog days numberless
Christmas gone, the year not yet expired
December chilled and bit
feet and fingers, stamp and clapping
breath of dragon, huff and puff
some small snow fluttered, failed to settle
no shine of frost on vines in solstice sun
though Jupiter and Saturn very nearly met, conjunction
bright as Bethlehem’s.
And while the world was drear, this rump declining tail-end time
plague year dragging dreadful, Marley’s ghost in chains
revolting spectre, cancelling the feast
we split and stacked our log pile neatly, under eaves
reached hands towards the creak and crackle, winter’s glamour
and solace found.
The gardener’s pleached limes, rimed,
out-stretching, insta photographed
two word title, luscious
beauty pouring like a balm.
30th December 2020 Hounoux, after Monty Don
Monty Don. Balm for us all. Those dog days, Sally. In Celtic myth we count those 12 days as time of no time. each day is to be marked and something of significance strike - and that to take you through the subsequent 12 months as as an omen, a guide. (Not necessarily bad!). Well, as you know I didn't manage that this year, though I have journaled this from time to time. So it was with utter joy that I lighted upon this poem of yours. The 'plague years, dragging dreadful' oh yes. 'Marley's ghost in chains, cancelling the feast.' Oh how you chose words which take on so many layers of meaning. But then to take us to the balm of the bleached limes. To take us through your hands, and Andy's hands to the warmth and primal comfort of fire. Love it. xx
ReplyDeleteI'm catching up and love your comment Clare and fascinating mention of Celtic myth. Reading this again it immediately took me back to the gloom I was feeling, long dark cold days and no Christmas here but like you say comforted by my fire but sadly only my hands.
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