The Long Winter Of No Poetry Poem by Gordon R Menzies

My hands have long lain dormant, weary
weary as my frost-bitten heart, low
in a dark and pensive hibernation
an old bear indifferent to the Spring
struggling with dream, old and new

I have written here with only my feet
leaving stories in the silt drift of snow, passing
stamping angry adjectives into shattered ice
this quiet, cold and circumspect season
a season of falling ice and little deaths
of night drugged dreaming darkly
and lakeside pugilist winter winds
a bloody blue relentlessness of imagery
shards of life skating across the frozen bay
I stand amidst the harbouring trees
squinting into disbelieving misery
into the unending white treachery of it all

and suddenly see
this is not the whiteness of winter
but a virgin page, awaiting ink