When I was a girl, the winters were ferocious. The street I lived in was a
small street with no more than about a half dozen houses down each side.
Every house, or so it seemed to me, had a polished table in their front
room and over that table was a chenille cloth. Our cloth was red with
bobbles hanging all round it. I only have to close my eyes to remember
the thick rich feel of that cloth and I don’t have to do anything to
remember my sister.
SPRING TO WINTER
The world goes round in tight circles
As I have always known it would.
Its intention always to go
From Spring to Winter
In one breath.
When I was first tall enough
To see over the table top,
The bobbled red chenille cloth
Cherried in my fingers,
I learnt then of dying,
For in my house that winter
Our Spring baby died.
That snow pulsed afternoon,
The old scissor-grinder, out-lighted,
Stood under the gas lamp
Stoning blades of knife and scythe and scissor,
Sparks spinning from his wheel
As if that winter day was Carnival.
I ran from him,
Snowflakes melting my eyes
As I wept for my sister,
Suddenly afraid of the scythe
And afraid of the scissor.
©2018 Gwen Grant
8 thoughts on “SPRING TO WINTER”
That’s a heartbreaker of a poem.
I can remember so much of that day. It hurt then and it still hurts now. Thank you for your
Powerful writing. Thank you for this.
Glad you liked it and thank you for your nice comment.
I am so sorry for your tragic loss. 💞
A long time ago now, AnneMarie, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. Thank you
for your kind words.
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A painting etched in the mind is more vivid than what hangs on the walls of a Museum…!
Glad you enjoyed the poem. Thank you for your kind words.