I only wrote this poem for the atmosphere it creates but somehow it seems to have acquired an accidental depth and meaning. I know this because people keep telling me there’s so many layers to it and so much complexity.
Well, there isn’t any meaning from my point of view but I suppose every poem carries different meanings for different readers. I don’t mind though, so long as no one asks me what the meaning actually is. That really would break the spell.
Personally I think it’s all too melodramatic.
Winter Tale
Well then, here am I
standing in the careless light
thrown from your window,
letting the cold seep
through my jacket
and sink into my chest.
The glass mutes your voice,
muffles the river of your laughter,
while the night races
further from the day,
letting the frost creep
across the pane,
so the memory blurs.
Fathoms deeper in the dark,
an owl is calling,
the mist is rising
from the river,
and the reliable moon
throws tree shadows
across fields of snow.
One last brief shiver,
the owl still calls,
and I pray for the next
turning of the page.
Jack Fritwell's Wheelie Bin 