January is a sad sombre and slumbering month.
Janus, god of beginnings and guardian of gates—
with one face looking back to bare boughs
heavy with glass coats
and frozen in stark, white, concreted ground.
The other face looking forward
to the green display of
hooded and hibernated buds.
I am wrapped in a cocoon of introspection
waiting with latticed anticipation
for the sullen sodden rain to cease—
and the cold grey horizons to lift, for blue.
I will not miss the mizzle
of dismal overcast mornings
and the sorry slush
when rain coincides with snow.
Being gripped by refrigerated gales
and chilled by spears of sleet.
I search for those sentry places
in hardened ground
where Galanthus breaks through
and surrounds the seared snow
with snowdrop optimism.