FROM A FRIDGE DOOR by Francis Frost
FROM A FRIDGE DOOR I composed this little poem in 2002, constrained by using a standard set of fridge word-magnets. Hence, the dull title. I was short of words. It is short on summer. But then, summer is often over before we realise it has officially begun. By coincidence, this year (2009) has produced a wet summer despite a strong assurance by the Met Office that it would be a “Barbeque Sizzler”. They have concluded that they were not wrong, as “the rain was warmer”. Of course, the poem is not about fridges or the Met Office. It is about the unfolding of Nature’s extraordinary processes and sequences, and man’s lack of a relevant role in respect of them, other than to admire in silent awe. FAF 10 th September 2009. Beneath a heavy cloud fecund plant and thick green moss breathe ancient song to fertile night. A sacred wind coaxes fresh life as every trunk and tendril struggles from winter into spring. Soon summer sun...