In my Deepest January

In my deepest January,
frequently the sky is pink,
trees hunched over, shy and nude,
creeping round churned up fields.

In my deepest January,
carrion crows, grey as fading ink,
pick at drowned worms, rude
and raucous as they wield

sharp, curved beaks then sink
them into mud, cackling a lewd
caw. Breaks in the treeline reveal
the village church, a chink

of grey stone to lighten the mood.
As the sun begins to sink,
in my deepest January,
the naked, twilight woods turn pink.

Kim M. Russell, 29th January 2025

Image by Yanga Li on Unsplash

This week at What’s Going On? Sherry would like us to contemplate and share poems based on the phrase: ‘In your deepest January…’ She says that we should repeat the phrase (it could also be ‘in my deepest January’) somewhere in our poems.

I’ve taken an old poem and reworked it.

29 thoughts on “In my Deepest January”

  3. The poem is like a beautiful painting. And the crow and its activities suits the landscape perfectly.

    “As the sun begins to sink,
    in my deepest January,
    the naked, twilight woods turn pink.” Love this.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

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