Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Cold Comfort

Is life poetic? Is life poetry?
I guess the concept is one for long, slow
nights of reflection, and early morning
bursts of proud prose and of profundity.
Today is Tuesday and it’s grey outside,
with just a touch of mottled greenish brown.
White threatened yesterday, majestically.
It fell sloppily from a pewter sky,
and decorated the long, grey/green grass.
It did not stay long in the empty yard,
melting away swiftly as memory;
leaving a chill as welcome as regret.
My mind has no hold on either of these,
and Summer’s grass has no hold on the snow.

Mick McKellar
October 2019

Pondering the changing seasons is slow, chilly work.


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