I have been writing this poem for a long time. For six weeks, in fact. I’m not sure if it has actually made it better or worse than the poetry I was churning out in about fifteen minutes flat on a weekly basis before I went back to teaching in September.
Anyway, I mention this to explain why the topic of today’s poem is a tiny bit out of date. It is about how I hate January.
Too long it stretches with grey foggy skies
No hidden, glittering gem now lies
In bleak midwinter meadows
Bearing hints of spring
And gleams of hope.
bringing up Immanuel
Stark leafless trees and churned muddy fields
No thrilling adventures the world now yields
Just bloodless exposition,
First chord struck,
The first page turned.
After pains of birth and newborn joys
Comes slogging feeding chaos noise
Through plain days drained of colour
Watching drying paint
And growing child.
destiny seems a fairy tale.
Beyond the horizon veiled from view
The humming prelude of something new
Where long awaited promise blossoms
Layers peeled away
And life reborn.
Glory lies just there, you see?
Forgetting what is past
The ordinary steps will lead
To the thrill of life at last.
(c) Judith Kingston, 2014
Photographs (c) Pieter Kroonenberg
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