When Winter Really Came

A Seomra, wooden

inside and out,

with a polystyrene layer

in between,

sits at the bottom

of the garden,

dislodged from

the house

by three days

of snow.

He writes

in there,

which means

he stares out

the window

at falling flakes,

walks around

the shelves

fingering spines,

tidies and enters

mountains of

receipts accumulated over

an extended period,

repeats these rounds,

leaves for coffee,

forcing his way

through ten paces

of blizzard.

As a poet

in the making,

he follows this

programme

assiduously,

three times daily.

Poetry in very

slow motion.

Peter Clarke