At the back of All Saints church,
An old beech stands in advent nakedness,
As well it ought. By the front door,
A young cherry is already pink with next
Year’s bloom. How soon will the beech follow suit?
The seasons are awry. Enjoying the soft sky
And Indian-Summer sun, I worry that winter
May not come, as it failed to do last year.
Might we not see its like again?
Ill-portrayed as the season of discontent,
Winter is renewal time; an opportunity
To find yourself, take stock, catch breath,
Make and mend.
I had supposed that, with autumn being as
It was this year, winter might be hard
But I fear that the seasons have been downsized
To three; by European decree, perhaps.
Where does that leave me?
This year has not been easy and I would readily
Embrace a period of stability. There are gardens to be
Weeded. I need time to exorcise ghosts, build bridges
And patch holes; Winter things.
Then today, a biting wind drives clouds of snow-
Promising grey and, in doing so, puts my mind at ease.
A sense of order is restored. Winter is within reach
And though my heart bleeds for the cherry,
My soul is with the beech.