Poem of the Month

Winter Bleak by Frank McMahon

Fire spark and sputter in the pit of winter,

in the deep nocturnal terminus

between harvesting and sowing.

Each day, hunt in the fields and woods,

until the time to slaughter a beast,

 feast and fill the moon-flecked hours

with ale and mead, open up

 the story hoard, the epic journeys

of gods and heroes, warriors and mythic beasts;

bowls of words spiced, refilled,

passed from lip to ear, carried outside

to catch the dancing of the stars.

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Then the crabbed months of counting stores,

eking out on longer nights

the small essential change

of what grew well or failed,

the seasons’ mutability, burials and births,

the enduring sub-text

of fear and aspiration. Until longer nights

 when speech is locked in frozen ponds

and a sort of sleep, alert for the dog’s alarm,

 the musky scent of wolves.