This page showcases some writing on the theme of Winter by Bookbite readers. Send your own wintery poems or short stories to info@bookbite.org.uk
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Bright White Light
by Pat Payne
Bright white light
Filters through blue blinds.
Has it snowed?
They said it might.
A lifted corner then reveals
Moonlight
Brilliant and icy cold.
Warm bed comforts
My childish disappointment.
December Morning
by Pat Payne
In a long field,
Lines of cabbages
Pale and crystalline
Rib the frosted earth.
Trees along the boundary
Appear in soft focus.
Bare arms raised into the mist,
They stand at the margins of invisibility,
On the edge of the world.
January
by Carol Rogers
A golden sun rises
through the tangled wood
where catkins hang upon
the leafless bough
The moon grows paler
as she rides the
brightening sky
now streaked with
amber cloud
and in the early
bird-song, there is
a promise of spring.
The Breath of Winter
by Jacqueline Spencer
Misty mornings, damp and grey
Cling to the earth, hugging the clay
Silvery threads hang on every tree
‘Tis Winter it whispers, come and see –
Feathered friends fly hurriedly searching for food
Clambering frantically for anything good.
The pavements are wet from the morning dew
Awaiting the footsteps of me and you.
Street lights are dimmed, rest until dusk.
On fruit-bearing tree hangs a frostbitten husk.
Crumpled dappled leaves left over from Autumn hues
Hang beneath skies cold littered greys and blues.
Steamy breath hovers in the icy cold air..
Glove-covered hands, pinched noses laid bare.
What a wonderful morn this wintery day
Crisp and expectant as I hurry on my way.
I savour the moment expectant and new
Turning the corner, as the next bus is due.
Winter Blues
by Betty Pearson
Oh, how I hate the winter, how I hate the cold,
Others seem to thrive on it, me I just feel old.
If only I could hibernate, curl up like a bear,
Sleep the dreary months away, oh but it's not fair.
I hate the gear we have to don, the long-sleeved thermal vest.
The long, long johns, like woolly combs. The stockings and the rest.
I hate the struggle to keep warm, it fairly wears me out.
I'm sick to death of looking drab and permanently stout.
I wake up every morning with legs like lumps of lead.
I creep downstairs and feed the cat, then shuffle back to bed.
And every year about this time I convince myself I'm ill,
I swallow endless medicine and gobble each new pill.
My hair is dull, my skin is pale, kind thoughts are hard to muster.
I feel so tired, I feel so old, I'm what you'd call lacklustre.
I'll go and see the doctor, that's what I will do.
Just let him say it's Change of Life and I'll change HIS point of view.
But if I hate the winter, then I hate the doctor more.
Well, I don't exactly hate him, but I'm decidedly in awe,
And isn't it uncanny, when once the appointment's made,
How every sign of illness seems mysteriously to fade?
And there you sit in the waiting room, working out a plan,
'I'll insist on having an x-ray - why not body scan?
He'll not fob me off this time - saying it's just my age'.
I'm feeling full of confidence, worked up quite a rage.
And just as I am in full swing - it's always been the same -
The antiquated intercom splutters out my name.
My stomach churns, my mouth goes dry, my legs begin to sway,
Oh how I wish I'd stayed at home - come back another day.
I wish I had a swollen foot - maybe a broken bone -
Then I could limp so bravely - let out a little moan.
All the other patients look such deserving cases,
Runny noses, hacking coughs and miserable long faces.
Well, in I go and there he sits, pen poised at the ready,
'What can I do for you?' he says. Do I tell him? Do I neddy.
'Ah yes' he says, 'more hormones', a scribbling of the pad.
I'm in and out and home again, and oh I do feel bad.
So roll on days of summer, of warm and scented nights,
When I can sling the jumpers, the heavy-duty tights,
When I can gamble freely, bare-legged and brown of face,
Reborn - renewed - revitalised, back in the human race.
Night time in Kandersteg, Switzerland
by Mary Levett
Tall majestic mountains, clothed in pure white of winter,
Towering over the valley below, where the rock hard earth
Glistens with diamond lights of ice, sparkling and twinkling,
reflecting the stars of the heavens in the clear moonlit sky.
The stillness, calming, peaceful, where earth meets sky.
The brightness of the full moon casts its eerie shadows in the snow
in a seemingly never ending night.
All is well in this world of light; creatures and people sleep
resting in tranquillity and dreaming of heaven.
Love is waiting
by John Stephens
Love is waiting,
For Autumn trees to shed their leaves
Love is waiting,
For winter snow to come and go,
Love is waiting,
For Spring
To bring
Love.
Two Winter Poems
by Margaret Gilmour
White light awakes me.
The world's unplugged its speakers.
Overnight snowfall.
Snow-wet gloves
steam
on a radiator.
An evening walk in the snow
by Mike White
Crisp snow squeezes and squeaks with each step
Glossy, piano black, the stream cuts through its brilliant white shoulders
The heron takes silent flight on his slow beating wings
Crisp snow squeezes and squeaks with each step
The ducks bob and turn, frictionless
Four Swans swoosh by me, head high
Crisp snow squeezes and squeaks with every step
Peace, mindfulness and clarity
Everything seen as it really is in the snow reflected light of the dark night
Winter Words
by Dorothy Jamal
Snow is a gift, wrapped in cold air and ice,
to be enjoyed, delighted in, and always
held in ice-cold hands, touched with frozen feet.
It is a joyful reminder
that we live in community,
bound by common humanity
to those we seldom notice
and those to whom we do not speak.
Now crisp air echoes happy calls,
cold feet hurry to join the fun.
The elders become young again,
the young marvel with new vision,
as earth and sky, transformed and beautiful
with this great gift of cold and clarity,
summon us all to find our reborn self.
Hidden and Revealed
by Pat Payne
Last night it snowed.
Silently, soft flakes
Fell and fell,
Changing the world.
Silence hangs in the bright
Light-reflecting air.
My garden is transformed
Into a magic place.
Sharp corners softened,
Edges smoothed and curved.
Spiky shrubs,
Long-fingered ferns,
Tough serrated leaves,
All changed into
soft, amorphous shapes.
Snow sits along the clothes line,
Miraculously balanced.
Below, pristine whiteness
patterned with dark
indented paw prints.
A cat.
His secret midnight visit
Is revealed.
The Beach in Winter
by Janet Goacher
The seagulls swirled unhappily, t’was not their time of year,
No trippers eating sandwiches and quaffing cans of beer.
The wind that blew so cold and chill bothered them not at all,
The clouds were dark and menacing, they knew the rain would fall.
But what cared they, their squawks and cries filled the empty air,
They wanted food and more and more, of what they did not care.
They swooped and yelled, their raucous cries echoing round their space,
But no-one came and no-one heard, deaf was the human race.
But what was this, a family now hove into their view,
A mum, a dad, a boy and girl, they looked a motley crew,
But they held bags and on those bags a word they knew so well,
TESCO... a good and peckful sight, and down to earth they fell.
They flocked around and hopped and flapped their wings in glee,
This family had braved the wind, they’d come to have their tea.
"God save the people," they all cried in a crescendo shriek,
As frantically they wheeled and called through many an open beak.
So soon the crusts began to fall and pizza pieces too,
They loved it all and gulped it down, a miracle come true.
Of loaves and fishes they had known, the tale seemed so absurd,
Now they believed, believed it all, three squawks for lemon curd.
Response at Christmas
by Anne Armstrong
I wrote this a few years ago, and I reread it each year to remind myself how fortunate some of us are. It was written with compassion for all those who have fallen on hard times; I really do believe that 'there for the grace of God, go I' (and I would give some cash!)
Don't sit and beg for coins from me
As I pass by you in the street;
Don't sit in a derelict shop's doorway
With that square of ragged canvas
Holding the paltry coins that others tossed,
Prominent at your feet.
Don't fix me with a bloodshot eye -
Nor a clear eye, either;
Don't cough and call out,
'Missus - spare some cash?'
Don't scrunch inside your threadbare coat;
Don't advertise the fact you need a wash.
Don't twang your cheap guitar
With half-gloved hands that shake;
Don't blow that ruddy whistle - or flute;
Don't tap at tambourines,
Or attempt any sort of music you can make.
Don't look so cold and hungry
On this wintry afternoon;
Don't eye my full up-market carrier bags,
Or my cheeks' well-nourished bloom.
I have a son your age; a husband too;
And friends at all the ages in between -
It's true.
It could be my son sitting there, causing offence, like you.
I'm not insensitive;
I sympathise;
I recognise your plight;
I know it could be me, as well as you.
But don't ask me to compromise my strongly-stated view:
How giving cash can't help someone like you.
How do I know you'll really buy some food,
And not waste it, like I assume you usually do?
Don't sit on pavements and beg for coins from me.
I'll never give you any;
Isn't that plain to see?
I'm Mrs Moral Rectitude;
But as I hurry by, if you look closely,
You may see the teardrops in my eye.
A Lonely Soul at Christmas
by Trevor Headley
This poem is one that I made up last Christmas after reading an article in the paper with regard to the number of people who spend Christmas alone.
It wer Christmas but ye wudn't av nown it
My place wer as quiet as a mouse
Folk wer gooin owt partying
But ther wer only me in't 'ouse
I wer all on me own int' bedroom
T'me id wer just another day
I'd got nowt to celebrate
An on me own I'd got nowt to say
It wer cowd as owt int' bedroom
Bedclose wer cowd as ice
So I snuggled up to me bottle
Oooooh id wer nice
Ther wer a nokin at front door
so I shivered me way dawn't sters
I open't door an a crowd stud ther
All shoutin
Merry Christmas
So if you know someone who is on their own at Christmas call and see if they are OK and wish them a Merry Christmas.
Short stories and letters
Click on the links below to read the whole story.
A Winter's Morning
by Jean Jane
The wind is cutting; it is an icy blast that seems to come straight from the frozen plains of Siberia and, unhindered in its purpose, is intent on causing pain...
by Olwen O'Dowd
The slight figure of the woman dressed in black moves slowly along the path, the snow had fallen overnight, making the journey hazardous...
by Madge Brawn
She stood there, her young unlined face revealed nothing, knife in one hand, cold steel in the other. Slowly and lovingly she drew the knife up and down the steel. Eventually she was satisfied that the edge was sharp enough for the task ahead...
'Twas the Night before Christmas
by Mark Rickman
The tubby little man dressed in a sober green frockcoat entered the gas-lit Victorian office, glanced at the opulent desk, and settled gingerly into one of Touchy and Touchy’s leather chairs...
by Maureen Oliphant
Some years ago we spent Christmas in a stable on top of a Yorkshire moor. Albeit a centrally heated stable. Very appropriate you’ll say, a stable at Christmas...
