Not entirely reliable omens

Work in progress

Always the last to get it,
our warmer city waits on sightings,
news from Mendips and Quantocks,
the snow's disruptions
closing in from coast and moor,
first gusts reported
from ring road embankments.

 And you might detect it coming
in behaviour of seabirds
or office workers hurrying home,
a thicker kind of rain
and the children going to bed
in high hopes of a holiday snuck in
just after Christmas.

 But then, showing our age,
we're more concerned 
with finding shovels, gumboots, grit,
seasonal implements long left beneath the stairs.

Because of these rumours, these rumours
that solidify into the night,
we're going to be ready,
ready for what they throw at us.

 Tom Phillips

The Three-Day Melt (via Google Translate)

The poem below translated into Albanian and then re-translated back into English mechanically. After waiting a week it begins to beat an old tattoo. And we are among the few, digging out our slush neighborly provided at the expense of metal smelting, and thinking himself heroic. Glossed by the sun-suffering snow path reaches a glaze, as a hotel lobby magazine, before stronger, Grays, cover stained newsprint. Here are the furrows have done, footfalls disappear. Now we are forgetting claustrophobic days, beating around the bush to clear the roads negotiable back to the usual rush. From suspension now, acceleration hours push on; clouds clear and we can not mark time, appreciate, at least not to watch every step.

The Three-Day Melt

After waiting the week

for a damaged gutter’s steady drip,

it starts to beat an old tattoo.

And we are amongst the few,

digging out our neighbourly slush,

metal offered to the melting ridge,

and thinking ourselves heroic.

Glossed by sun-tormented snow,

the street achieves a sheen,

like a hotel foyer magazine,

before it hardens, greys,

maculate as newsprint.

Here are the furrows we made,

footfalls disappearing.

Already we are forgetting

the claustrophobic days,

beating around the bush

to clear negotiable ways

back to the ordinary rush.

Out of suspension now,

the accelerating hours

push on; clouds clear;

and we can no longer mark time –

grateful, at least, for not

having to watch every step.

Tom Phillips

'The Three-Day Melt' appears in Recreation Ground (Two Rivers Press, 2012): http://tworiverspress.com/wp/recreation-ground/

The Dream Library and other poems

Various Artists have just published an e-book of poems written since the publication of Recreation Ground: copies are available by directing an email here: variousartists986@gmail.com
Recreation Ground, the hard-copy book, meanwhile, continues to be available from Two Rivers Press by going here: http://tworiverspress.com/wp/recreation-ground/

The Dream Library and other poems

A small selection of poems written since Recreation Ground is now available by emailing this address: variousartists986@gmail.com