it is cold and bleak and painful
but it isn't about the weather, grasshopper
P-P
>From: grasshopper <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New Sub: The Weather Man
>Date: Fri, 15 Feb 2002 23:13:18 -0000
>
> On another list they have a regular challenge to write a poem on a
>particular theme. This was for one about the weather...
>
>
>The Weather Man
>
>In the last wood, he waits.
>The leaves of his hair
>are crisp with frost.
>Old air is bleak along
>the withered limbs.
>
>He cranes his senses
>for the echo
>of sundered voices,
>but only the wind speaks
>and it has no language.
>
>This is a ward, they said,
>but he can see the trunks
>decaying, smell
>the rotting roots.
>He has come to this,
>the final winter
>
>and weather is blowing
>all the words away
>into swirls of snow.
>They cannot touch him
>in his coldness
>or breach the white wall.
>
>So, he thinks,
>as it ends,
>shedding a tear
>of ragged ice
>for the world,
>the world lost,
>and all the warmth
>wasted.
>
> grasshopper
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