A Winter Villanelle

This Christmas life has been different. Firstly there was –and still is – the snow -snow which has plunged us deep into the heart of winter, forcing us indoors apart from an occasional trek across snow laden fields in winter boots and Christmas hats, scarves and gloves. But the most memorable difference and the thing which has given me greatest pleasure this year – apart from having my family gathered together under one roof- has been sitting under the glass roof of my newly built conservatory.

At last a room of my own – well all are welcome to join me – but a room for reading and for listening to music and for shutting out the television. My best Christmas present ever. I knew I would like it, love it even. I knew I would enjoy reading and writing in it, drinking wine with friends and family. What I didn’t know was how much it would be about stillness and sitting – just sitting. I didn’t know how meditative and reflective a place it would be.

It is as if I sit outside in the landscape, a part of it. In a room full of reflections I can look beyond to the outline of the bare trees against the winter sky to other times and places, near and distant.

To me winter is the season for reflection. It is contemplative, often melancholic, and so because it is winter and because I was given a copy of Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled for Christmas and because of my beautiful new conservatory I was inspired to write this Winter Villanelle –

Winter hour reflections grow

Like ripples in a darkening pool

The lost and loved of long ago

———–

Circle above the black winged crow

Winding out the memory spool

Winter hour reflections grow

———–

For what it was she thought to know

Come skating through the icy cool

The lost and loved of long ago

———–

Bone tree bare December’s glow

Keeper of the fable jewel

Her winter hour reflections grow

————

And leave their footprints in the snow

Songs of silence muffle cruel

The lost and loved of long ago

————-

Flames that dance coal caverns blow

In the fire of dreaming’s fuel

Her winter hour reflections grow

The lost and loved of long ago