In January she scatters
her wares: the white confetti
of winter, the sugary ice-moons
that reflect the afternoon sun.
She falls from the sky, mixing
wind and rain, transmuting
the elements. The roads clog;
the cars spin; the windows frost;
the pavements crack. A shout goes up -
a child has been taken:
shadowed waters dredged until dusk.
Why is Nature so angry ? we ask,
and shelter in a jeweller's doorway,
cower before her blustery skirts.
Embrace me, she roars. Her anger
consumes all - the tiniest bug,
the loneliest weed, cyclamen
and dog rose - frosted embrocations
encrusted into brittle white strands.
Nature is a woman scorned.
Disowned. Unfettered. Her rage
becomes our rage, her madness
a mirror held to us all.
Later, while she sleeps, we
venture out, walk along the frozen
tow path. The glistening fields
blind us. The waters sing
a sweet lament. Hedgerows rustle;
birds shake frost from their wings.
We laugh and see nature's
alchemy with fresh eyes.
Her anger is a gift, we say.
Accept it with a gracious bow.
But at night she stirs again,
wakes, rattles the sky. There
is more of her madness to come.
So we hurry inside, sit listening
to her roar, watch as she dispenses
her unimagined beauty.