Writing Workshop - a poem of cold things

In the street is cold and snow
still not slush, not ready to go
what once was grey is white and clean
but pigeons wonder what it means

scratching among the stranded cars
hoping for crumbs or fallen stars
they sit, dejected, fluffed, alone
a heap of flesh, of feathers, bone

a window view, a look without,
silent, still, no word no shout
but thought of others trapped in stone
where all is white, and all alone.

This poem written after gazing out of my window to the boring (and snowy) look of my car park and hearing on the radio the stories of Haiti, the dead children, the dust and the unimaginable loss.

Thanks to Josie for the prompt


  1. So poignant. The news this week has given all our snow complaints a harsh perspective. What is a bit of disruption to the loss and devastation over there? A beautiful poem TM, thank you so much for sharing xx

  2. I just found your poem via @NDM on twitter, it's just wonderful, don't mind me, I think I have something in my eye.

  3. I also found your poem via @NDM. Glad I did. Beautiful!

  4. Thank you for all the nice comments. I'm always a little afraid of sharing poetry. Maybe now I'll be brave and share some more. Thanks again.

  5. Lovely and great description xx


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