Winter has arrived, we’re in the depths of November <br />And yet the lines won't come as they should in this frost, <br />This frost I love, the frost that painted me a thousand words <br />Last winter – sparkling fields, shimmering leaves, <br />Everything gleaming, all white and true. <br />They were new. <br />New poetry, that’s what it was. <br /> <br />But the frost has moved from roads and trees <br />To my hand, my brain. <br />We are the train that’s broken down at the station. <br />We’re happy to be at this station. <br />It’s become familiar, so safe. <br />But the passengers, the passengers – <br />How outlandish they’ve become! <br />With their quirky demands, <br />Seeking to get to new lands. <br />The driver’s not a happy man. <br /> <br />Snow is beginning to fall outside. <br />It’s not good news. <br />The track ahead is hazardous. <br />Worse still, the driver seems a bit <br />Lethargic. <br />How hard can it be? <br />Incredibly, in the snugness of security. <br /> <br />Winter has arrived with a perishing grip. <br />A poet, I am not.<br /><br />Seán O Muiríosa<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stuck-at-a-station/
