Stuck At A Station
Poem By Seán O Muiríosa
Winter has arrived, we’re in the depths of November
And yet the lines won't come as they should in this frost,
This frost I love, the frost that painted me a thousand words
Last winter – sparkling fields, shimmering leaves,
Everything gleaming, all white and true.
They were new.
New poetry, that’s what it was.
But the frost has moved from roads and trees
To my hand, my brain.
We are the train that’s broken down at the station.
We’re happy to be at this station.
It’s become familiar, so safe.
But the passengers, the passengers –
How outlandish they’ve become!
With their quirky demands,
Seeking to get to new lands.
The driver’s not a happy man.
Snow is beginning to fall outside.
It’s not good news.
The track ahead is hazardous.
Worse still, the driver seems a bit
How hard can it be?
Incredibly, in the snugness of security.
Winter has arrived with a perishing grip.
A poet, I am not.