WAITING
Silent fields, and a bitter night,
And us, trying to keep warm
Under a frozen sky.
The air so cold, a tap
Would shatter it into shards of darkness
To fall around our feet,
And in that star-lit, owl frozen silence,
The hushed dark call carried thinly
Across the still and sleeping fields.
We, so quiet, the red-gold shadow
Of a fox padded by us
All unaware of our waiting,
Its paw pressing the frosted grass
Into dark and hungry prints
Along the path.
Then the silence was broken
By the soft whisper of wind
Drifting snowflakes down the feathered sky,
To quilt the winter ground,
And, somewhere, in that bitter icy world
Someone offered a word of hope.
As long as hope is in the world, then,
We, cold and frozen in our waiting,
Can warm ourselves at the fire of love.
© 2018 Gwen Grant
Poems by Gwen Grant 
This is beautiful! I was right there with you in the snowy, silent field.
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Thank you! So happy you liked it.
Gwen.
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“As long as hope is in the world, then,
We, cold and frozen in our waiting,
Can warm ourselves at the fire of love.”
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Poetry, Josie! There’s always a poem that needs writing and I’m glad you like this one.
Gwen.
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You seem brimming with the lovely stuff. And I’m glad of that!
I’ve just been reading Bryher’s wartime memoir “The Days of Mars” and it’s been leading me to some interesting stuff from Edith Sitwell and H.D. Plus had me investigating the incident when Dorothy Wellesley hit Harold Nicholson over the head with an umbrella a poetry reading attended by the then queen and her two daughters.
Passionate stuff, poetry!
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