Stagnant Front

Dec 1 2015

Snow softens,

sodden glops

heavily drop

through settled air.

Turning to hard rain.

The tipping point

between liquid and solid

that could go either way;

a tight-rope walker, teetering

halfway there.

Now a fine mist

that cuts to the quick

with cold.

Then sleet

with its shimmering sound

chilly edge.

Precipitation mixed

the weatherman said,

a stagnant front

of snow and ice

and frozen mud.

As if we were caught

in a war of attrition

between winter and fall;

hunkered down, freezing wet

in some miserable trench

in no-man’s land.

If only fall would withdraw

winter declare itself.

Like a high pressure system

that comes barrelling-in

on a brisk west wind,

winning the battle

of cold.

I've written far too many "weather poems", so wasn't thrilled to find myself writing another. And I've not only already used this martial metaphor for weather, but also the First World War imagery. But sometimes, a poem insists on being written a certain way, and I'm left simply taking dictation.