Snow Falling in a Scottish Wood
Another wintry poem from the vaults – this one inspired by my stay at a Scottish castle as Writer-in-Residence in 2015…
(Written while Writer-in-Residence, Hawthornden Castle, Nov-Dec 2015)
Listen to my reading of the poem here
After the snow, Hawthornden, K. Manwaring, 2015
The news is given casually over dinner.
Not the bombing, but:
‘It is snowing.’ The first
Of the winter. I venture out.
A white and black world
A game of draughts.
The chill exchange of one mass
For another. Boots sink into
Two, three inches. The castle
Is illumined in fairy tale
Perfection. I hold my
Breath, not wanting to
Break the spell.
The forest beckons.
It is night, but the path
Is lit up by itself – silence
Is dislodged, a thousand
Muffled falls, as though
The undergrowth teams
With wildlife. It is the stuff
That panic is made of.
Risk perverse, I stray
beyond the pale.
The forest revels in its own beauty,
Every lineament delineated by
Kohl and crystal. A deadly
Glamour. This…
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