As Winter raged
Winter was at war.
Her subterfuge:
Crumble grey-white flakes upon the scene.
The air, dead;
Dead too, the sound –
Blunted by the whitewash.
Motion, dead –
Bluing chill saw to that.
Everything ground to a halt –
Like an empty train, crawling, seizing;
Eventually to die sprawled along a ghosted platform –
A lifeless plain of concrete.
I still had far to go –
Or so this brain computed
– Tried to –
Inside my own raging storm of white noise,
Howling in its desperation.
Now wild, blitz-wild,
I bore an irrepressible thought –
A goal, focus, idée fixe:
To clasp a frosted hand around
A radiant mug of sugar-laden
Calorie-heavy
Full-fat milk chocolate –
Steam wraiths writhing over
A freshly-spooned whirlpool,
Sultry in their invitation:
‘Come, sip, sip some more;
Soothe yourself in balmy richness.’
I still had far to go…
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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