A poem a day: Too cold for confetti

Not really using the “I remember” prompt today. The penultimate poem for this monthly creation (churn?!) of poetry is possibly more of an everyday imagined human geography.  (Also: villanelle!)

Near Oaken Bank Woods 29.12.14
Somewhere between Oaken Bank and Lords Wood, Hopwood. 29th December 2014.

 

Too cold for confetti

The wind cuts right through, it’s like breathing ice,

the solid rain turns silence into blue.

You said it once, don’t need to tell me twice.

 

Grain of the clouds, harder than polished rice

hailstones hammer, re-sculpt that bronze statue.

The wind cuts right through – it’s like breathing ice –

 

throws plastic bag bunting on branches. “Nice”

you said, yawning, “it prettifies the yew.”

(You said it once, don’t need to tell me twice.)

 

The horizontal rain . We pay the price:

cancel the party for the avenue;

the wind cuts right through, it’s like breathing ice.

 

Glib yammering is your only device:

“Rochdale’s a little bit nicer than Crewe”,

you said it once.  Don’t need to tell me twice.

 

I’m bored. I need someone else to entice;

‘coz we’re nearly over.  Nearly done. Through.

“The wind cuts right through, it’s like breathing ice”.

You said it once, don’t need to tell me twice.

 

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