Tuesday 4 March 2014

A Third Archival Remnant of the year

All month, all I.D.E.A.

Archival Remnant No 3 catalogue number MX744

The Winter misses the Summer.
The Winter wants to speak – apart from icicles, words are all The Winter has.
Or phone.
How did the song go?
“Words, words are all I have, to take your heart away.”
But instead The Winter sits alone, and talks to himself. The words bounce pointlessly; autumnal echoes clouding his mind, searching for a way out until they twist and break, dropping uselessly amongst the litter of his thoughts.
Where he sweeps them up to begin again.
“Why would The Summer want to hear from me?” The Winter asks.
Why would she care to listen?
The summer has heard it all before, measured it and found it wanting.
The Winter imagines The Summer, already far away, sitting by a fire, staring into the flames…
She is not like that; The Summer will be busy with dreams and new beginnings.
She is radiant, glowing with her own firelight, her skin bright and alive. Her eyes too, they have found again the depth and mystery that was always their beauty.
The Summer’s strength makes The Winter feel weak.
The Winter is inadequate before her, and he chokes once again on his own silence.


Anonymous said...

He's a wonderful Wiz
A whiz of a Wiz because
because of the wonderful things he does
Keep wizarding we witches applaud you xxxx

popps said...

Which witch?

Anonymous said...

Not the white one with the red nose! xxx

Mary said...

O Summer, light, beautiful and ever smug --
Replaced by Winter's blanket, hearth and rug
That warm my toes and give my heart a tug.

Summer loved me well for a little while,
Til it was tempted by a younger smile.
On trips to the Colosseum and the Nile,
Not a care, wind-blown hair, mile after mile.

Conquered then tossed onto the wrinkled grey pile,
Whispers 'cruel to be kind' with heartless style.