After the revelry of Christmas and New Year,
the silence of January is solid as a block of ice,
occasionally melting into shifting swathes of mist
grey as wood pigeons and musty house mice.
No gentle coo, whistle or twitter of birds,
the day is mute; no body warmth or human words
until the fire’s lit, the coffee’s percolating,
and the percussion of tyres on gravel
tap dances in the twilight. You are here
and the heavy silence of January is breaking.
Kim M. Russell, 8th January 2020
I enjoyed the extract from Shelley’s poem ‘The Cold Earth Slept’, which Sanaa, our host, shared with us in this first Weekly Scribblings, together with a word list to tease our senses.
Sanaa says that the rules are simple: all we have to do is pick any three words from the list and write on a topic of our choice, poetry or prose, remembering to keep prose to 369 words or fewer. I chose percussion, gravel and twilight.