Poetry

Yorkshire Winter

The air here steals my breath, whipping

Its dirty flocks through my head. Winds wail

Across the mouldy greens, the sun’s less

Than a speck of white against the grey.

He’s always been a bearer of deaths and bad news,

A hulking-skulking giant in worn corduroys,

His brogued feet soil the front step with mud,

Pockets – always stuffed to the point of bursting.

The air moves with him, a cold cloud

That drains light from the room. His face a rough rock,

Fag smoke clings to it like an old man’s mane.

How do I hate him now! It’s winter, and his boots

Make the floors heave and creak. It’s all these

Custard crumbles, I want to scream at him, but winter

Holds me in a pincer grip. He’s shuffling about,

Noisy with mugs and spoons.  This ridiculous old man

Could make himself useful.  Now, he’s mounting the stairs,

A sullen grizzly bear. Don’t expect me to talk to you,

Your voice grates on me, your shifty tones.  I’d rather let in

A blizzard, that knocks on the window. Don’t push that door!

But the breathless, twisted face bursts into the room:

“I’ve won the T.S. Eliot prize, luv.” The wind smashes

The door shut.  An apple crashes down.

Maria Kardel