Storm-stoked...

 When I started writing this poem the snow was still held at bay,

but the winds have escalated and begin to add substance 

to the forecast of a big storm today.

The sky hangs low with unshed snow

The wailing wind begins to blow

Into each crevice, crease and nook

The vines that drape the boist’rous brook

Rattle; summer’s skeletal trace

Like scattered spools of tangled lace

Or ink-stains from a stoppered sea

That spilled vague strains of poetry

Still waiting to be recognized

By brittle frond and sprig disguised

The grumbling gale bullies the bush

And rakes the woodland’s solemn hush

A hoodlum looking for a fight

Harassing everything in sight

It storms the streets and marketplace

A hunter eager to give chase

To any unsuspecting prey

Not battened down or tucked away

So hang onto your hat, my friend

Or you may not see it again

The wind-chill seeps through walls it seems

And wakens simple fireside dreams

It makes the courtier of books

Content in modest, nested nooks

Where wanderlust’s tug is assuaged

Twixt sips of tea and turn of page

And everywhere we wish to roam

Does not compare to home, sweet home

Where paper ships on paper seas

Transport us anywhere we please

So, let the weight of lowered height

Burst through barred gates in white o’er white

White petals and white butterflies

White diamond-studded stars and sighs

White whispers on a white-washed path

White garnish on white aftermath

Unbroken save the curlicue

That spirals from the chimney flue

Or here and there a little bird

By ruffled feathers undeterred

© Janet Martin