Ice Age


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Irene lives in Kent, the Garden of England. She finds inspiration in the natural world, belongs to supportive writing and poetry groups and tries to write a haiku a day  [+]

Image of Short Circuit #04

It started with your betrayal
your pleas for my forgiveness.
You expected hell fire
but your eyes met
an uncomprehending stare,
with frosty blocks of syllables,
I’m going to bed now.
Don’t forget to feed the cat,
and we lay not touching
stiff on a glacial sheet.

So it continues, our home
no longer refuge but a house
reflecting the raw chill of winter,
the black ice of the pond
the shards hanging from our roof,

You beg me to speak to you,
properly, talk it through.
I shake my head, numb.
You coax me with yellow roses
for devotion. I put them in water
for their sake, not yours.
You’re an iceberg, you say
but my feelings are frozen
not submerged.

Yet today
a white sun shines.
I hear the steady drip of melting
the first snowdrop nods its head.

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