December Poems

Here are some poems I have written in deep midwinter: 

Nina Milton

WINTER TREES

They are matchless,

My trees in winter. 

While I watch telly and eat carbs, 

Put the fire on, the heating up, 

They stand naked to the battle;

Steady for storm, ready for gale. 

Winter trees communicate in semaphore

Black flags against the half-day’s light.

They are gallows for bats,

Rigging for gulls,

Blue cages for robins 

Steeples for stormcocks.

In the cold sun, 

The oaks glow emerald with moss;

The planes strike piebald patterns;

Birch trunks shimmer like a high moon. 

I pull on gloves, hat, scarves,

Brave the cold to watch 

As they wait secure, 

Dreaming sap dreams,

Expectant for spring.

CAILLIACH 

                                                                                   Scrag End,

                                                                                   Hag wending

                                                                                   Her cackling flight

                                                                                   Over the mushroom yews.

                                                                                   The Samhuin night holds her,

                                                                                    Unfolds her soaring cloak

                                                                                    As she rides her birch broom high.

http://themotherhouseofthegoddess.com/

2013/12/21/winter-solstice-reflections-on-an-cailleach/

Storm Eye

Borne higher 

Than Circling wind,

A vortex for a throne.

Below, as we run for cover

She shrieks a laugh and spins

Stridng the tides.

Boughs creak

Clouds flapping

Seas flooding, seeing blood.

She shakes the earth 

Till fire spews.

Life’s elemental horrors are hers

As she beats out the storm

Enough! 

Misshapen crone, 

Winter harpy - time for home,

Let late winter snows gentle 

Lambs and snowdrops into life,

I implore, beseech you, hag,

It’s Bridget’s time, so pack your bag.

(the Cailliach is a Scottish Goddess, whose legend states she epitomizes hard winter)

STANTON DREW STONE CIRCLES

Photograph of Stanton Drew
 by the late Carni Tipton

Suppose the dolmen that squats high on the track

Are three petrified shepherds who never sleep – 

Moonbeam white, resting as they watch their sheep

Leaning to rest each on the other’s back?

While down in the valley, three circles lie,

Earth-rooted like old men’s molars, they stare

Past the earth’s harried timekeeping to where 

Stars wheel backwards and the moon’s phases fly

To the beat of these sandstone hearts. One ring

Lies fallow, resting in the weedy grass, 

The grandest circle is spaced wide and fast

The third stays tight, upright; I hear it sing.

It breaths the pulse notes of a well-tuned harp

It holds the secrets of a trusted chart.

BLACK MOUNTAIN, BRECONS.

My feet stand deep by your heel in the gloom

Of your towering wilds.

Storm wave, Wailing Wall,

They named you Black Hill,

The back end of Brecon’s

Mountain range where, disconsolate, you loom.

Ceridwen loves to feel the dusk enslave,

Wrap wild anguish round

A heart. Black Mountain must

Belong to her,

Stirring an iron-cast pot

Inside a hollow crag, some dark-eyed cave

Murky shadows move me;  are you

Goddess, hag, or just a tale 

From old-folk years?

No answer.

Only the wind, steep with dread

Flap of umbrella bat, bleak caw of crow,

As they soar into the desolate air.

From the break of dawn to moon-slivered night,

Herbs lie in curling steam.

Cauldron-sour on the tongue,

Perilous to steal, it will devour,

Turn you mad or

Offer transformation into light.

I turn upon my heel, can’t hold my place.

The barren cliffside sucks

At hope, drags away cheer.

My shoulders shudder 

At the goddess glowering in her crag

I want to weep at your heartbreaking face.

It doesn't matter which of the mountains of Wales you visit, in January, they loom over you in a very Welsh way; powerfully depressing. Recently we've passed under the shadow of several; the Preselis, the Cambrians, Carreg Cennan where our friend Gill lives, the Berwyn Range a little northeast from us, and the Black Mountain, which is the closest part of the Brecons to us. 

In fact, none of these are mountains in the true sense, all being less that 1000 metres in height. We all know that the only mountain in Wales is Snowdonia, which tops the 1000 by just a metre or so. But every hill and mound is a mountain to the Welsh; even we live on a mountain; the Gernos Mountain, which peaks (just above our cottage) at less than 300 metres.

We passed the very eastern end of the Black Mountain quite recently, as we drove through the village of Ynstadgynlais, and the hill loomed up against us like some sort of malevolent spirit about to do terrrible things to our car. That's how it felt, anyhow, and as soon as I had paper to write on, I had to record the weird things I'd felt, in the poem above. 

Winter Poems by Nina Milton