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
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