The Colour of Winter . . .

 

 The colour of winter,
no matter the weather . . .
is pure and lovely,
with long dark blue shadows,
purple dried stalks,
glistening white frost and snow . . .
and pale amber which shellacs
the brooks and streams
which run in summer, but now . . .
are frozen still,
beneath a thin coat of ice.
Easily broken, it is
and so tempting . . .
with threads that turn this way
and that way
intercrossing each other
in an icy dance across
the surface . . .

 

 

 

 

 Dry leaves and grass,
each vein and curve
are etched as if in glass
a touch would break . . .
the inner ear
hears the tinkle of
a million crystaline bells
swinging too and fro
along the edge
of fence and briar . . .
and leaf and blade.
It is a cold beauty,
but . . .
beauty nonetheless.
Meadows are latticed now
with the patterns of dark branches.
Great timeless trees
with branches lifted
in an intricate dance against
a still sky. 

 

  

 

 

 Inside our four walls
we sit . . .
warmth cupped between our hands,
as slittle shards of ice
throw themselves upon
the panes of glass which
separate us from
the winter world
which sits outside
and beats at our door
bidding us to
welcome it in.
We dare not bid hello,
for fear it will stay.
We dream of warmer times
and tuck the blankets closer
against our legs.
And feel our blessings
ever more and pray
a prayer of thanks.
~Marie Rayner ® 2014  

 

 

Just a poem that I wrote a few years ago now.   I haven't written any poetry in a while now.  Just the odd verse, scribbled on scraps of paper as they come to my mind.  I find now that if I don't write things down as soon as I think them, I lose them  . . .  getting older, its not for sissies I guess! Sometimes I even lose them before I finish thinking them!

 

I was remembering this morning how when my children were small I used to make them boiled eggs for breakfast sometimes and I would mash up the egg a tiny bit in a bowl while it was still hot and dab it with butter so that the butter melted down into the egg, and added a tiny sprinkle of salt and pepper.  When I did that I felt like Ma Ingells in a little house sitting on a prairie.   I suppose as moms, down through the centuries we have all done these little tiny things for our babies.  Small acts of love, whatever we can  . . .  tiny gifts.  All of those things are tucked away in their minds.  I wonder if they ever take them out and hold them for a moment.

 

 

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
 *"Stay is a charming 

word in a friend's vocabulary."
~Louisa May Alcott•。★★ 。* 。 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In The English Kitchen today  . . .  Dessert Crepes for two with Lemon & Sugar.  Yummy!

 

Have a beautiful Sunday.  Don't forget! 

 

 

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And I do too!