Seldom Said

Where hoar frost rimes the grass and fallen leaves,

And lends them wings to cross the ocean wide

To a distant shore, where my brother sleeps.

Sheltering beside him in its mother's womb,

A new life is quickening,

Its formless dreams of light and sound

Troubled by alien thoughts of ice and snow

And the cold welcome that awaits it

In the new year's deeper dark.

Fear not, little one, for you will find

Not winter's chill embrace,

But warmth beyond measure in your parents' arms

And boundless love besides

It started about a week ago, the morning after Bonfire Night. I went for my first run in weeks, heading through Chorlton Meadows and down to the Mersey. I found my mind slipping into a familiar groove: trying to think about something useful, but ending up jumping around in trivial circles.

Then something happened. Maybe it was the scent of smoke, or the mist, or just the urge to compose something other than a tedious Twitter/Facebook status update for a change, but whatever it was I found myself indulging in a spot of poetry:

Crisp November morning.
The tang of last night's revels fills the air.
Mist haunts the river
And hangs in ghostly garlands from the autumn-painted trees.

I'd started out aiming for a haiku, but brevity has never been my strong point. Nevertheless, I was pretty happy with the result, especially seeing as how I'd composed it in less than half an hour and largely resisted the temptation to mess with it afterwards. I really enjoy writing poetry, but have very rarely found the inspiration in the past. Or perhaps - as with my other creative writing efforts - I just lacked the focus and the discipline.

Yesterday morning I again stepped out into the cold morning air and did a token warm-up. And naturally I thought: can I do it again? Well, it didn't come quite as easily this time, but once I found a theme there was no stopping me. I even found that an unexpectedly apropos sub-text had crept in without my noticing:

The angry wind has passed,
Its throaty roar replaced by softer voices:
Birdsong, goose call, magpies' chatter.
But in its wrathful wake
The silent trees stand cold and bare,
Mourning fallen comrades,
Their once-glorious colours
Now trampled in the mud.

Can I keep it up? Only time will tell. But I'm certainly going to have a go!