Low Winter Light

Jan 10 2020

There is something in this winter light

that drains the world of colour.

Washed-out,

like vintage clothes

laundered over and over.

Or the weathered paint

of a house by the sea

exposed to the elements.

So different

from the deep greens of June,

the electric blues, and primary reds

of summer's fecund excess.

There is a softness to things

in this dilution of light.

Like looking through frosted glass.

Or watercolours,

thinned down, and runny
to make them last.

In late afternoon

when the low winter sun

will soon give way to dusk.

Under drab skies of ashen cloud

unbroken overcast.

With a hint of wetness

in the usually dry air,

the feeling you get

when weather's coming.

A density

that seems to slow light

and sap its strength.

As if the world were on hold,

patiently waiting

saving up.

Frozen trees,

needles thinned, colour bled.

Dormant squirrels

curled-up in their lairs.

And deer, huddling for warmth.

While skittish mice

sleep under the snow.

Where they have hollowed out a cozy nest,

featherweight bodies

in brown and grey

hunkered down in the dark.

Prey animals

who prefer short dull days

to the stress of endless summer.

Shunning the light

and lying in wait

for night's protective cover.

A kind of tone poem, more mood than description.

And my usual (tiresome?) tropes: weather ...trees ...animals.

And darkness, of course. Being true to my nature: a nocturnal creature, just like the mice.

The poem actually began with frozen trees, / needles thinned, colour bled. (Even though that was one of the last lines I wrote.) I was looking out my kitchen window at a stand of cedars. It curves convexly away, at the far end of the parking circle. In summer, they are a full vibrant green. But in this winter light, they looked thin, forlorn, and drained of colour: as if they had given up, shoulders sagging and energy depleted by successive snows, the desiccating air, the tiresome cold.