Hi everyone, winter is making her voice heard in every corner of New Zealand. The little patch I call home sees frosted windows and lawns most mornings. This last week of August will feature another one of my personal poems and I can’t wait to share it with you!!
Well, a little background to this poem. Back in the late 1990’s when I would take the bus to university, the wintry landscape I saw had some impact on what I wrote then. I wish I could say that a piece of literature I’d read or something I saw had inspired this piece but I think it was a combination of several of these. The heritage buildings that one finds near the university campus would also conjure up images for me!!
A Winter’s Tale
Cold, damp winds that blow, Bring in a tale of woe, Fourscore and some years ago, This wintry tale was told.
Winds moaning, dying, Clouds scurrying, piling, Autumn leaves falling, The weather is changing.
Winter is on its way, Bringing in early frosts each day, Slowly does it come my way, To where I sit by my window, Waiting, watching and writing this tale.
Daytime is not long anymore, Time races on and darkness falls, To those far corners on fathers shores, While I wait for him to come home, And bring us gifts galore.
He promised he’d come home on a wintry day, A wintry day full of snow, Which is why I anxiously stayed, On my window seat, watching Coldness creeps and icy dew shows.
Autumn leaves pile high on streets outside, Trees are bare and thin, Mother bakes bread and stores up inside, So that we are warm within.
Winds crying, sighing and sleeping, Wakes me at night, to find, falling snow and frost “Winter’s here!” I cry.
Waking mother, waking Pete, I run outside to see, To catch snow on my face and cheek, But I hear my mother's plea.
So back to sleep I go, Filled with misery, For I wanted to catch the first fall of snow, Before it piled up high and mightily.
Days of cold blue winter passed quickly, But father did not come, A letter he sent he’ll get his leave, And return to us by Midsummer’s sun!
Father never came to say goodbye. Yet, throughout my life, Whenever the snow did fall, I’d remember my father’s old brown pipe, And his soft brown eyes that call, “I’ll come to you, Josy dear, I’ll come next winter.”
By Surani Ramachandra
Late 1990’s
Enjoy your reading, and stay safe friends!!
Miss Mahee
Miss Mahee's Library of Reads 