January

poem

Iris Shaw

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For us the sky is heavy, brown and dull

Weighed down by too many winters:

We can’t pretend to hardiness, not here

Though by all rights we should have rejoiced

When the clouds began to gather overhead —

Pity us poor excuses for northerners

Whose old boots gave out five years ago

Whose boots prefer the past, and milder winters

Whose boots have half-a-dozen holes, and flapping soles

Whose boots shrink and wail at ten below.

I sing the frigid joys of winter, and no mistake:

The half-born melted mess of next-door’s snowman,

The silver spears of trees picked out in ice;

Now we are torn and mended, doll-like, by the wind

With needles made of diamond air;

We are frozen, thawed, and hung to dry.

And when the snow no longer falls

We talk, and say we’ll take a walk

Before the paths are cleared;

Our steps are careful then: we know

The best and purest white’s a liar,

Watch your feet — slow, and slower still;

The snow is angel-white, and there’s black ice below.

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