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(19 October 1927 – 7 September 1997 / Dulwich / London / England)

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Tas in March

White on dark water, so stark
I leave my binoculars behind
and watch with bare red eyes
two swans, taut with sexuality,
stretching their necks
alternately side by side.

They are early: colour is
still to come to bone-dry rushes
and trees bank black strangling

their green. It is a hard wedding:
sharp brambles and ivy-covered
stumps hunch and hug;

sleet pokes the surface from
a blank neutrality, to come back
spitting with all its mouths.

Roused, the spread wings
beat their own storm towards
the north, wind against wind.

Somewhere in all this a small
heat is held, like the hope
of a cold man drowning.

Submitted: Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Edited: Tuesday, May 10, 2011


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Comments about this poem (Winterton by Edwin Brock )

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  • Douglas Scotney (8/15/2013 7:37:00 PM)

    Wilfred Owen in the frozen trenches: ' I was kept warm by the ardour of life within me. I forgot hunger in the hunger for Life.'

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Barb Mcavaney (8/15/2012 4:44:00 PM)

    a good write there must of been quite a storm

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