January...Part 1

Inspired by John Clare's January Poem

 

Still now as then we stoke the flame

And list to Old Man Winter’s wail

And turn a page where sages tame

The wanderer with paper sail

After we shake snow-droplets free

From swarthy brow and warm our toes

With fingers wrapped ‘round cups of tea

While ‘cross the lea a bold brawl blows

…and tweaks the squeaking, listless limb

Where once upon June-day we lolled

Beneath its winsome, green-tossed hymn

And long-forgotten bitter cold

That paints its frosted filigree

Across lost windows to a world

That teases us with fantasy

Of warmer days and buds unfurled

…though when the shed is full of wood

And supper’s pot is hot with stew

We whisper God and life is good

And winter has its beauties too

And we are not so very sad

Though trouble still rouses protest

And all the news seems very bad

The mouse still creeps from attic-nest

…to wander through the pantry where

Perchance some crumb of cake may lie

And love is like a rocking chair

Where mother sings a lullaby

That spirals like a thing of mist

And soon soft, oft-kissed baby-child

Startles us with the way time is

And rouses heart-storms keen and wild

…and we feel like the next of kin

To Old Man Winter as he weeps

And sears his tears on years of skin

Where everything slips from the keeps

Of outstretched arms like snow when warmed

So we plump pillows in home-nooks

Of creature-comforts, soothed and charmed

By sips of warmth and storybooks

…and all the progress man may boast

Cannot annul the pull of strings

Affixed somewhere beneath the most

Common or handsomest moorings

Where rich and poor alike endure

The ebb and flow of season-tide

And none of us can be too sure

Of what waits on the other side

…of where we are; the jugs and jars

That we tip to our trembling lips

Only to taste the salt of stars

And malt of scars, wisely equips

Us with the sense of something more

Than roar of gale and robust gust

That shakes the pine-wreathed cottage door

And strews earth’s floors with diamond-dust

…where outdoor’s air is like a glass

Poured full of iced-sun lemonade

For Father Time is thirsty as

A July farmer seeking shade

After heaping wagons with hay

This too shall pass; these shutters barred

Will soon be jiggled loose; grim gray

Gives way to sun-beam studded yard

And all the postcards we collect

Of fields tossed like a white-capped sea

Of parkas, mittens, scarf-swathed necks

Of Jack Frost’s awesome artistry

Will be replaced with lace of leaf

With zephyr’s lilt and gilt of green

January is like a Chief

Soon usurped by Youth, seventeen

…and all his surly threats of snow

That now we shovel from the drive

Will not triumph; soon earth will flow

With songs of ‘glad to be alive’

And winter, like a pail of ash

Splashed on a garden, dream-dew pearled

Where laughter spills and bare feet dash

Will deck the halls of Yester-world

...then snuggle beneath quilt or coat

And let the crackling blaze delight

Where summer worlds that seem remote

Draw nearer with each morn to night

Then stomp the snow from booted feet

For winter comes but once a year

Then let the merry kettle greet

Its shivers with a song of cheer

…where every season has its joy

And every joy its sorrow-sword

Then let each moment we employ

Be met with humble ‘thank-you Lord’

And pause to plunder through knee-deep

White-feathered wonder; feel its thrill

Where howling, growling gales soon sleep

And dawn is full of songbirds trill

© Janet Martin

 January by John Clare Part 1&2

(click on images to enlarge)