First snow. Less hyperbolic than forecast.
So it may be with fall out; the punters get things wrong.
The daily pattern continues. People rise,
shower and dress and break their fasts
whatever latitude they inhabit.
In this neck of the woods
the sun did not deign to show itself,
but emails are answered, cats fed.
Conversations with tongues and thumbs brought no solace.
As daylight seeped back over the horizon
a bowl of apples needed peeling,
and whichever bits of them were lovely, and of any virtue
I sliced and cooked.
We will still eat, and sleep,
and wake to find the nightmare still around,
and search again, tomorrow,
for whatsoever things are true
or just or pure or of good report
and keep on looking.
And don’t expect divine intervention
to make a difference. It’s our job
to find the tools or make new ones;
man is the animal that does this.
Hannah is a writer, forager and hill-walker who lives in Leeds. Her first solo collection Lodestone was published by York-based Stairwell Books in 2016. She finds poems in landscapes, people-watching, galleries and libraries as well as the usual love and death stuff. She won the 2016 Geoff Stevens Memorial Prize.