Poetically speaking

When I looked out on Sunday morning, the hillside seemed mournfully quiet, sad in sunless colours. I lit a candle to bring a little warmth and light into the room and wrote down a few words. Today, I looked again at those words and set them down like this :-

                         Silent slopes sit,
                                                   dark with a
                         grey foreboding,
                                              sunless,
                           still,
                                      waiting for the next
                                storm to
                                                unleash its
                                  f       r       
                                       y
                          u 

                           sodden ground
                                                     plays in
                                           no dancing shadows    -


                          quiet tension of
                                                     the                     space
                                                              between      -

                           invasions of water
                                                               p  o  u   r         in

                                                                       p a t  h    s
                            multiplied by  days and
                                                                     nights    of
                                      dr e n  ch  ing
                                                                  un  -  cea  -  sing
                                                           r  a  I   n

                             a  n  gry     BLASTS   of   

                                                                       W i N D  s

                             s h ak  e         homes

                                                                    cr   ack   trunks
                                                     like twigs   -

                               fragile beauty    to  ss ed   aside
                                                                                  and mourned;


                                 we seem    trapped,
                                                                   not in a Narnian wonderLand
                                        white with ice and snow    but 

                            peer toward remembered  hillsides
                                                  l o s t   in veil  after   veil   of
                                                                           unending     w e t ne ss;
                                                                              
                               until today;
                                                       now   fresh snow  g lea  ms
                                      on  slopes       in
                                                    sudden      br  u  sh  -  stroke
                                                                                                 of
                                                                      pale sun    - 

     brief     in- ter-lude    of  calm      -

                        then  clouds    s  l in  g      icy     pellets

                                                         hail   against    windows,

                                        a      r u s h    of     wind    in
                                                                              the colder air;


                                           we wait for what
                                                                              may come.