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   10th 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 will burst ripe nature out,

red berry fruit wilt brown,

yellow flower wither,

and fall vine rustle.


Wild wasp is dead; harsh frost an ornament.

So soil as stone and rain a blanket on hard ground

reflect how full was shade, why sprout emerged,

or bloom could thrive

while we only listening

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