Winter Hour
From the window I see them;
desperate anorexics, unmistakable
strips of winter –
they are always in my eyesight,
always vivid when my hours lean
me to the hollowed out corners of my imagination.
Pure, white, dead –
these limitations of a day
set on a page; the rat of boredom,
or the inconsolable child
who shows nothing of being nurtured,
save for my ringing hands -
my inexperience, maternally.
Why do you comfort me
with starvation? If I could exhibit
some foreign exotic, some rub of colour
through my English heart,
would there be a purpose
to an otherwise sluggish pulse?
I am immune, I say
to the cold, I am immune –
my fingers like broken chess pieces,
my knuckles; bird skulls cracked
by those spent women
I see from the fields outside the window.
I have a desk, I have a solid place,
I cry, to the whirring air conditioning.
These hours do not shift
but I, I do –
hurried nerve spat thoughts;
countries evacuated, my wandered
knot of hunger.
There is nothing to do Ladies,
nothing to do
but to fatten yourself up;
the spring will be here soon.
Ged Thompson
Sat 2nd Feb 2013 23:54
I like this, no no no thats the wrong word, I enjoyed the darkness of this and the way your descriptive language almost paints a picture in the minds eye.
Oscar Wilde said that to think deeply is the privilege of those that have been hurt.
I feel a lot of pain in this which stopped me from liking it as much as enjoying the poetic skill employed when writing it. You are extremely gifted. Well done and God Bless XXX