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Mark R Slaughter


A Winter Pond


Sting-chill of winter matt -
Her frozen hand caressed us all;

And calming bleach of silence
Pressed upon the rustic scape
To leave an ashen underbelly -
Once raging summer chroma.

Even Winter's gelid lungs laboured
Under heavy drag of flakes -
Their pilgrimage: to stay a deadened floor
In crunch-white peace.

And round about, the weight of time
- Collapsing under Winter's drag -
Transmutes to grey: it's three o'clock -
No lights pricking black out here! -
Even the night globe,
The Great Reflector - stonewalled;
Camouflaged by lead-laden cloud
Lolling in the claustrophobic noon.

At ground, a farm pond -
Seized in a dark hiatus -
Offered up repentance -
Why, it dared to harbour life!

I forgave it in my desperate gaze
Upon the crazy-paving surface,
That sealed in the black-chill temperature,
Where at bottom, something nithered
Still survived.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010










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Winter Snow

winter winter winter winter winter winter winter
winter winter winter winter winter winter winter
winter winter winter winter winter winter winter
winter winter winter winter winter winter winter
winter winter winter winter winter winter winter
winter winter winter winter winter winter winter
winter winter winter winter winter winter winter
winter winter winter winter winter winter winter

Submitted: Saturday, November 27, 2010
Edited: Friday, November 07, 2014

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