photo credit: Charlie Day DaytimeStudios Supermoon and Clouds via photopin (license)
Whose is the moon
That floats on high;
That lights my way
On winter nights,
That sails above
And reflects below.
Whose is the moon?
Not mine, I cry.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Originally Published 3 January 2015
photo credit: Paladin27 Winter Watch via photopin (license)
January is cold; barren season
That life has left a hollow shell.
Only decay can keep a death beat
Where once hearts in rhythm called ‘All’s well!’
Now chaos grows in frozen darkness
Ice warriors of this living hell.
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
photo credit: kickize The graveyard via photopin (license)
Tumbling snowflakes
Covering me, a blanket
Of winter conceals.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
photo credit: Natalia Medd Wrapped in Winter via photopin (license)
This is the leaving time, the dying of the light.
Winter fires may wait to burn the last embers of the old away.
In anticipation of the new emerging from these dark nights
Like a phoenix from the ashes. But this is the leaving,
The last post, and we are all prisoners of this dying season.
Hopes are all gone awry, it is too late to put things right.
Winter’s child has wrapped us in her embrace.
Her cold, dead arms encircle us.
No chance to overturn the order,
Season must follow season, we cannot overthrow
We must suffer winter’s tyranny again.
The glacial kiss of the unforgiving season.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
photo credit: Jorbasa “Was für eine Kälte!” – “It´s too cold outdoors!” via photopin (license)
Spiteful hiss of the old she-cat,
Who’ll claw first and regret later.
If she’s disturbed from her favourite spot
Beneath that toasty warm radiator.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
An endless cycle
Green gives way to brown, Then white
As the snow falls down,
But beneath the blanket
Crocus and snowdrop wait.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Day 5 and a poem which is to be included in my first collection, out next year, along with plenty of all new poetry.
Whose is the moon
That floats on high;
That lights my way
On winter nights,
That sails above
And reflects below.
Whose is the moon?
Not mine, I cry.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
