Some Wintertime Poems by Finola Scott
So the Darkness approaches,
I could talk of
the rip and reveal of the veil
stripped furrows and iron earth
barren trees, growth-numbed
days blink-blind short
fur and leather on the wing
claws’ clatter at thresholds.
Instead I consider
the star bright canopy
hoar-silvered morning webs
ruddy- riped berries
a horned moon hooking night
rooms flamed in candlelight
vevlet nights in each other’s skin.
My arms open.
This city’s a cutting room tonight.
Slashed ribbons of fog freeze braes.
Clattering cobbles hush. Tattered organza
halts Jekyll’s progress, cordons narrow closes,
cloaks solemn steps. Shreds of chiffon wander
wynds, muzzle mouths, silence Deacon Brodie.
This city’s a cutting room. Dank white
damask chokes booted footfalls,
Burke & Hare slip stealthily. Leaves
Dr Knox safe again. Iced satin snags
and drapes, the Castle’s a glowering ghost.
Cut on the bias crystal mist binds, blinds.
Edinburgh’s under wraps.
In winter wet, the struggle to dry washing.
Partner-less pillowcases, single sheets
recall other sunny washes. Squares
of towelling flapped and sang. Tiny vests,
cotton mitts – clothes for startled changelings.
Dolly pegs pranced tight-ropes
of bright tomorrows.
Today brute frost stiffens fabric rigid.
The robin stays on a distant wall.
I feel the chill marrow-deep.
by Finola Scott
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