Come Winter

There can be no doubt that we are firmly residing in Winter. Yule is here soon and the logs are already burning. But in amongst the cold and snow that blankets everything people bustle along, busy as ever, capable now of moving again and it seems to me that they have forgotten to look around them. To slow down and really notice the changes. Hard to you say? Well yes I suppose it is but it is also important too. Despite the modern day appliances and so called civilization Winter still levels the playing field. The elderly and young alike need more care. Jack Frost doesn’t mind their ages, only gleeful that they might not be able to keep him out. So some of us have agreed, we will take note of who our neighbours are. Remind ourselves of the community again and try and help. Even if it’s only to pick up a pint of milk or to bring some companionship to them for a while. So here’s the challenge, learn the name of your neighbour before Yule and offer a little bit of that most important thing you have to give; some time and friendship.

The following poem is from someone who falls into the above category yet stubbornly refuses help at times being mentally and almost completely physically independent still at the grand age of nearly 92. A cantankerous fellow, but always there in our hearts and in his own way a leveller too. Oh the fun I have had watching him with Littleun, 80+ years separating them, but both gleefully laughing as they watch “Tom and Jerry” together (“originals minds you, none of this newfangled rubbish”) or as they enjoyed the hotdogs and mince pies on fireworks night in the heated conservatory. Anyway, hope you like it:

COME WINTER

When the bold little robin sings his sweetest song,
And the lanes and meadows are cold and white:
When the nights that follow are dark and long,
Then nature sleeps through the winter’s night.

While, at the break of dawn, stillness keeps
Bar meadow pond where the waters slow,
And snug, the barren hedgerow sleeps
Beneath a mantle of drifting snow.

See how the winter spreads its snowy shield,
Blending church and cottage into one:
The snow-faced clock, its time concealed,
Save for the bell and the chimes that run.

Beside the stream, the mill in hoary mist
Is still, while nature sleeps in settled snow,
And ice bounds trees whose branches twist
In restless dreams, while northern breezes blow.

So softly tread this carpet white, hinder not
The fragile warmth the distant sun may bring:
For soon, there’ll be no rest in nature’s cot,
When dawn awakes and morning turns to spring.

Poem © PRISM

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