The Depths

A winter poem from the vault

I’ve been living in the South of France for over half a year now, a region famous (amongst other things) for its clement climate. However, this winter has been one of the darkest and wettest I have known - not British rainshowers, nor Parisian grisaille, but torrents of rain, day after day, week after week, with only limited moments of respite. At times like this – at times when the world is full of fear and rage – it can be hard to remain motivated, to see the rain as nourishing, to love water the way I always have, despite what it must be doing to this land of clay, so unused to being so sodden. And yet, on we go, in the ongoingness of being living creatures.

Here is a poem I wrote many years ago, in another winter, for all of us whose sunrise-imitating lamps only take the edge off.

SAD

The day does not break
It stumbles out
Of a harsh night
Into a half light
Waves of grey cross the sky
Lap at the edges of my mind

Yesterdays full of habitual hope
Todays trying not to allow
Cords of rain pull me under

Grey surf swirls submerge me
Cloistering myself I sip at hot drinks
Wrapped in wools of home
I cast lemon and sugar in feeble protecting spells
And wish I knew better whence it came
And how to keep it at bay

The afternoon heavy with chains
Drags towards a distant early evening
And if I do nothing else
With these solitary hours of tepid latte beige
I will have scribbled down these words
Something I snatch back
Something it cannot claim

Next week: a new poem and some news.