IntroductionEach poem in the full twenty-poem sequence takes its first line from one of the poems in Cicely Mary Barker’s Flower Fairies of the Winter (Frederick Warne, 1985); my titles merely strip out the framing text, leaving the plants’ names (as, for example, “The Song of the Snowdrop Fairy”. Barker had produced books for Spring, Summer, and Autumn, but the Winter book was published posthumously, made up of poems and illustrations from her other works, in order to fill the gap in the seasons. For the most part I simply used the first line as a jumping-off point, with little or no reference to the original poem; occasionally (when the line’s tweeness overwhelmed me) I found myself injecting a certain cynical or debunking tone or content. Snowdrop deep sleeps the Winter, though its bed is hard and full of lumps -- deep and dreamless, even when the bells ring out at Candlemas and milk flowers dangle – pearls from unseen ears – above the crystal eiderdown. Yew here, on the dark and solemn Yew, like warning lights the arils glow in winter sunshine slanting over graves and casting shadows long and lengthening; the epitaphs though partially concealed by lichens – yellow, orange, bluish grey – reach out towards the future, carry messages of partial immortality. Winter Jasmine all through the Summer my leaves were green unnoticed dusty unadmired. gardeners want colours, scents, want architecture (meaning height) and I had none. Within me, though, slept gold and when the last leaf mouldered underneath the oak I opened up my treasure chest and proved myself no miser. Dead Nettle through sun and rain, the country lane winds lazily between tall banks where sloe and holly, dog rose, may, and maple bloom. oak, ash, and thorn stand over me to guard my sweet and hidden wealth from idle passers by, who otherwise would pluck my pure white flowers to suck them dry. Rush Grass and Cotton Grass safe across the moorland sheep may graze -- the grasses that the wind rolls ripple like the river currents where sleek otters hunt and voles plop soft. but here the voles are of a different sort, that tremble at the rasping shriek of short-eared owls. and all about the round horizon we are haunted by the curlew’s call. Spindle Berry see the rosy-berried Spindle -- other bushes, trees, are silhouetted, sharply etched in jet against the winter-evening sky (a blue that’s pale yet luminously deep); the Spindle flares its bright pink fruits that split to show the orange seeds within, anticipating sunset. Shepherd’s Purse though I’m poor to human eyes and live a year, then quickly die I’m generous — my purse is small and yet I scatter all its contents far and wide and soon the garden’s full of thousands of my campaign favours green rosettes -- amazing what an open purse can do Groundsel if dicky-birds(1*) should buy and sell they’d make our scalps a living hell; we’d look like dandelion heads, the wind would blow off all our hair and scatter nits across our beds; then bald and cold we’d stand and stare as up would sprout a tiny army. We could never say what happened -- if we did, they’d call us barmy. ________________________________ * “Dicky birds” is old Lincolnshire schoolchildren’s slang for head lice Lords and Ladies fairies, when you lose your way because the wood’s made featureless, and paths are lost beneath a fall of snow that blinds you in the light of sun or moon -- oh, do not look to me for help, and hope to see my brightness flare among the trees. when winter comes I cower beneath the forest floor, until the warmth of spring entices out my rampant blooms. Plane Tree you will not find him in the wood, but standing out beside a stream conversing chastely with a friend. perhaps they speak of love, of madness, souls, and rhetoric -- perhaps their roots entwine in search of inspiration. Peter J. King was born and brought up in Boston, Lincolnshire. Active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s as writer, performer, publisher, and editor, he returned to poetry in 2013, and has since been widely published in journals and anthologies. He also translates poetry, mainly from modern Greek (with Andrea Christofidou) and German, writes short prose, and paints. His currently available collections are Adding Colours to the Chameleon (Wisdom’s Bottom Press) and All What Larkin (Albion Beatnik Press).
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