| A Winter Pond By: Mark R. Slaughter |
| Sting-chill of winter matt – Her frozen hand caressed us all; And calming bleach of silence Pressed upon the rustic scape To leave an ashen underbelly – Once raging summer chroma. Even Winter’s gelid lungs laboured Under heavy drag of flakes – Their pilgrimage: to stay a deadened floor In crunch-white peace. And round about, the weight of time – Collapsing under Winter’s drag – Transmutes to grey: it’s three o’clock – No lights pricking black out here! – Even the night globe, The Great Reflector – stonewalled; Camouflaged by lead-laden cloud Lolling in the claustrophobic noon. At ground, a farm pond – Seized in a dark hiatus – Offered up repentance – Why, it dared to harbour life! I forgave it in my desperate gaze Upon the crazy-paving surface, That sealed in the black-chill temperature, Where at bottom, something nithered Still survived. |
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