Holmfirth: A Wintry Morning…
Morning ‘bus halts to
Suck in huddling
commuters,
Then drives on.
Local stores lurk to
Prey on dawdling
customers
But instead, snow
drives in,
Thickening, then
whitening
The jumble, the
cluster
Of Holmfirth’s glum
stone;
But the River Holme
thrashes
Defiance, plunges and
rushes
In its hurry to reach
the Colne,
Hissing with all the
fuss it can muster…
Mourning chimneys, bolt straight,
Stack in jutting
redundancy,
As, high above,
Winter trees mock in
lines,
A sweep’s brushes, a
discrepancy.
Yet indeed, snow
flurries through,
Thickening, then
lightening
The pile, the muster
Of Holmfirth’s
glowering stone;
But the River Holme
crashes
Belligerence, lunges
and pushes
In its scurry to join
the Colne,
Cussing with its
eddies, tossed in a cluster…
Awry, sombre, dislocated pixels,
Like sepia
kaleidoscope beads,
The irreverent
pieces of an austere wall,
Speak of unsettled
souls, with no leads;
The snug church
tower’s façade
With its blackened
scars of death and flood,
Contrast with its pallid
clock-face,
As inevitable
chilled hands throb like spilled blood…
Pete Ray
January 2015
Being in Holmfirth,
South Yorkshire, Thursday 30th January.
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