Winter's Ape

The snowdrop hung its heavy head.
   “What is love?” you softly said
And led me to an icy stream;
   “Love’s a fitful, chilly gleam,
A wisp of early morning steam;
        It is as bright as the sun
   And in winter as soon done.”

A robin redbreast cast an eye.

“And hate?” you said as you walked by,
   Slipping in the melting snow;
   “Hate is what you do not know,
A body in the undertow;
        It is as dark as the night
   And in winter never light.”

A beech tree spread its empty hand.

“And trust?” you went on to demand,
   Snapping twigs beneath your feet;
   “Trust is taking whisky neat,
A hand upon the garden seat;
        It is the birds to the bread
   And in winter seldom fed.”

The sky was like a battered shell.

“And hope?” you questioned, “can you tell?”
   Squeezing berries with your nail;
   “Hope is water in a pail,
An ancient cure which might avail;
        It is the hinge on the door
   And in winter will not thaw.”

The berries were the deepest red.

   “Tell me of yourself,” you said
And turned to face me in the gloom;
   “I am back-talk in a room,
A muffled movement in the combe;
        My horny hand on your wrist
   I am winter’s ape you kissed.”

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© January 1980