An Imbolc sky, a relentless mass of swirling grey
Hangs above the Estuary, a mockery of clammy day.
Pale droplets gather, to sting and to assail
The traveller's pale face, turned against the gale,
To breathe the buffeting air, and scent of moist clay.
The Kentish shore, a distant leaden hump
Its broken contours rise, fall, re-emerge and clump.
The stentorian howl of a wind-ripped force
Gives a banshee voice to where the Medway pours
Its broiling waters, into the raging Thames to dump.
The dark falls gratefully, surrounding a view
That the dimlit daytime already withdrew.
A glaring Moon, both blue and super
Aloft like a lantern, a glow in the stupor,
Amid reeling cloud, and brazen stars few.
A morning emerges, a thief on the prowl
A sudden stillness, where wind is wont to howl
A chilling softness, fall of ivory flakes
A new direction, the wanton weather takes
Yet Sun will thaw, before the White turns foul.
Below this Imbolc sky, a season of hiding,
Of watching and waiting, of bundling and biding.
Some few brave buds striving to flower
To probe the dampness, to test their power,
To seek out the Spring on which hope is riding.