The Bitter Bite of Night
The Bitter Bite of Night!
Night creeps in sotto voce
melding with the mellowing village life.
Night, a seemingly mischievous cat,
slips along incognito in its prankish mood,
teasing any light that tries to define her.
Night now casts darkness into distant corners,
lassos slumbering, innocent buildings;
trick roping them with thinly, stretched shadows
until, from above, an inquisitive watery beam
reaches down, searching out this inky intruder;
a cold chuckle, a harsh response
and a claw-shaped moon is chased from the sky.
But feline Night is not what…
or who she seems!
For this Night… is dark in dishonesty,
is deep rooted in deceitfulness,
as suddenly she transforms from…
playful to heartless
and ruthlessly turns on all around her
swallowing greedily, chewing speedily
until nothing remains…. as it was.
Homely houses, strolling streets, loitering lanes
are veiled in darkness, smudged into obscurity,
until Night draws her black curtains – light-tight,
then elbows of hills and fingers of trees disappear,
stolen away by this dark demoness!
Night, in time, flows out through the village
leaving behind an unwanted guest
- the old man of winter - Jack Frost!
He crunches in with a harsh discipline,
refrigerating glances, icicled hands and teeth,
to set about his task of winterizing the village.
Later, when Night has removed her ebony cape,
morning nervously and tentatively edges in,
gradually leaking light all around to unveil…
winter’s work…..the bitter bite of night where:
Frigid, rigid trees with frozen arms
cling to the side of frosted, dusted hills,
plants lie glacially in a line, lifeless
as if struck down during a futile escape
then, in contrast, the beauty of a spider’s web
necklaced across a frozen, floating fence.
But now morning has a sharp edged voice
as footsteps snap, crack and crunch
while a car shouts its way into the distance,
winter biting and snapping at its heels (or wheels),
until suddenly it begins gasping with anxiety
gradually slide-gliding its way to a lasting halt.
There it sits exhausted; struggling for breath
while spluttering grey ghosts into the ether.
Winter poetry has written itself harshly
across a hardened countryside,
scratching, scribbling and scrawling
itself into every iced corner;
winter graffiti at its cold-hearted, bitter best!
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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