Reflection on a brief flurry of snow

Snow falls, and melts on touching ground
In a moment the air is clear and bright again
In a moment I’ve lost what I had found
It will come again, but when?

Elsewhere the snow lies crisp and deep
Elsewhere the icicles hang hard
I don’t know which clothes to cast, which to keep
What to rejoice in, what discard

Only looking back can choices be confirmed
Too close, too close now to know for sure
In the grave can consequences be unwormed
But til then our ignorance is pure

Pure as the snow or the wind’s scouring sound
Pure as a muddy footprint in frozen ground



Feeling wabbit and a little lost
As day slips by day and night follows night
Waiting for winter’s first real frost
Waiting for Imbolc and Candlemas light

Waiting til waiting becomes a lost cause
And action becomes the only choice
And creation seems to breathe and pause
Before singing out with gathering voice

A song that breaks the binding spell
Chains fall away, dissolve in rust
Where we go next no one can tell
But we will go because we must

Living moves us through each ticking breath
And we move when falling into death


Beneath the foam our footprints smoothed away
Above the line the evidence is clear
We walked, we paused, we ran on such and such a day
Below the line our lives just disappear

Stolen by time’s unyielding tide
That washes every mark to make the sand pristine
As if memories are dirty marks it’s best to hide
And better soon forgot once seen

Birds leave no wingprints in the air
Why then should my prints persist in sand
Time and nature never use the concept “fair”
You see the world renewed at every hand

King, beggar, child and crone alike are all washed out to sea
And love only lasts as long as memory

This is a magnificent riposte, very clever and very true.


Excuse us, Mr Grey,

We’d like to have a word.

All this ‘Mummy Porn’ you’ve spawned,

Is really quite absurd.

Fifty Shades of fear –

There’s no need to domineer.


Since when was bruising girls alright?

Bed partners should be equal.

What a load of literary shite:

Won’t bother with the sequel.

Fifty Shades of bin the whips –

There’s other ways to get your kicks.


This craze for sub-dom sex

Is really just insanity.

It makes our bottoms sore,

And causes expletive profanity.

Fifty Shades of erotica –

Leaves us needing arnica.


Despite the cash & private jets,

Egoistic bondage is bestial & mean.

Nipple clamps do nothing for us:

You can keep your sado’ dream.

Fifty Shades of all f***ed up,

We’d make you tear that contract up.


A man that makes us laugh

Is all it takes to get it right.

Loving arms and honest eyes,

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