{"id":5762,"date":"2023-11-23T10:24:02","date_gmt":"2023-11-23T10:24:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/writersrebel.com\/?p=5762"},"modified":"2023-11-24T12:34:19","modified_gmt":"2023-11-24T12:34:19","slug":"in-memory-of-snow-february-2040","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/writersrebel.com\/in-memory-of-snow-february-2040\/","title":{"rendered":"In Memory of Snow, February 2040<\/span>John Barron<\/span>"},"content":{"rendered":"

 <\/p>\n

1st<\/em><\/p>\n

Snow was a kind of hand-wringing heat;<\/p>\n

mine burned psychedelic red with it.<\/p>\n

Where your footsteps trod, it cast<\/p>\n

blue shadows like a methane fire.<\/p>\n

Crystals, so many<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t get the maths straight in my head,<\/p>\n

falling feathery, light \u2026 FeatherLite<\/em>,<\/p>\n

my nan\u2019s eiderdown,<\/p>\n

all put away now inside some cupboard.<\/p>\n

We walked through blue and yellow snow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

2nd<\/em><\/p>\n

There\u2019s still waking from my father\u2019s beery kiss<\/p>\n

above the bed clothes to the same cold sheets,<\/p>\n

but there\u2019s no narrative,<\/p>\n

the man in charge left long ago.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

3rd<\/em><\/p>\n

There were ashes from the stove, a smouldering pile<\/p>\n

our caretaker in school carried past us in a pail.<\/p>\n

I wanted to dip in my hand,<\/p>\n

to know the true meaning of heat.<\/p>\n

Outside on winter days the coal heap –<\/p>\n

each lump a headstone to lost lineage,<\/p>\n

hands now cold and neatly folded,<\/p>\n

fingernails seamed with black that wouldn\u2019t scrub.<\/p>\n

Snow from the East was drifting like sleep,<\/p>\n

me at the coal house door with a bucket,<\/p>\n

the coals spilling an ellipsis, my first dumb phrases<\/p>\n

printed over the white page.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

4th<\/em><\/p>\n

The PET scan seems to show the brain<\/p>\n

as receding lava flows, and so too the earth from space<\/p>\n

– spots of memory, still glowing cities –<\/p>\n

all folded away inside the petals<\/p>\n

of a moving star; Mother Nature\u2019s brushstrokes,<\/p>\n

her deft and intricate hand over the glass,<\/p>\n

on autumn mornings my fingertips pressed there,<\/p>\n

each print a numb, dripping galaxy<\/p>\n

that woke slowly to its own pain.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

5th<\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019m ice floes shattered,<\/p>\n

the seamless glaze of awareness gone,<\/p>\n

where the chemical stream gives out.<\/p>\n

Starlings, a memory charred black,<\/p>\n

drifts of them over the wood yard,<\/p>\n

the sky behind ash white,<\/p>\n

astounding in their first moments<\/p>\n

on my mind\u2019s happening\u2026<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

6th<\/em><\/p>\n

and ordinary as aired beds,<\/p>\n

pyjamas on the radiator.<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s beery kiss above the bed sheets.<\/p>\n

Who was it tunnelled through head high snow<\/p>\n

to light a chapel fire and, starved through,<\/p>\n

before kindling flames saw<\/p>\n

in a half-trance vision of the future only flames?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

7th<\/em><\/p>\n

Memory is mash, it makes lumps<\/p>\n

that get stuck in your throat.<\/p>\n

Stale toast crumbs inside my pyjamas.<\/p>\n

As if snowblind I\u2019m gazing from sun to shade.<\/p>\n

If only I could make out the shape<\/p>\n

in the darkness like a lost loved one.<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t always get out of was back when,<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 silver and dark, falling and softly falling.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

8th<\/em><\/p>\n

Tea leaves flock to the bottom<\/p>\n

of the china cup, where the glaze has cracked.<\/p>\n

My nan\u2019s thin lips are moving. Fine white hairs<\/p>\n

below her nose sway with each out-breath she makes.<\/p>\n

She bends a bent back further to peer<\/p>\n

into the possibilities, rooms beyond rooms<\/p>\n

in that seaside hotel we holidayed in<\/p>\n

– the dazzle of a bare light bulb in a wardrobe mirror<\/p>\n

my own shape reflected there then gone<\/p>\n

in each room the door left slightly ajar,<\/p>\n

and in the last on the windowsill snow<\/p>\n

– settling, falling like feathers \u2013 hers,<\/p>\n

each flake diffusing<\/p>\n

into unfinished background darkness.<\/p>\n

I remember on moonless nights that sea of fire<\/p>\n

our cold fists could never catch.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Note: silver and dark, falling and softly falling<\/em> – this line is taken from \u2018The Dead,\u2019 a short story by James Joyce published in 1914.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

John Barron<\/strong>\u2019s poetry pamphlet The Nail Forge<\/em> was with Tall Lighthouse. He has previously published work in Antiphon, The North, Poetry Salzburg Review, Pennine Platform<\/em> and Dark Mountain. <\/em>He is a long time gardener and is passionate about land rights, nature and ecology. Both the Permaculture Association and the Rewilding Network offer sustenance, he finds, in uncertain times. He hopes to set up a community land trust in Yorkshire to grow food sustainably, leaving space for all the other forms of life we share this planet with.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Call to action: Please support the valuable work of the Permaculture Association<\/a>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  1st Snow was a kind of hand-wringing heat; mine burned psychedelic red with it. Where your footsteps trod, it cast blue shadows like a methane fire. Crystals, so many I couldn\u2019t get the maths straight in my head, falling feathery, light \u2026 FeatherLite, my nan\u2019s eiderdown, all put away now inside some cupboard. We […]<\/p>\n

Read More… from In Memory of Snow, February 2040<\/span>John Barron<\/span><\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9,"featured_media":5763,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[4,1],"tags":[879,48,1234,598,338],"yoast_head":"\nIn Memory of Snow, February 2040 - Writers Rebel<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/writersrebel.com\/in-memory-of-snow-february-2040\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"In Memory of Snow, February 2040 - Writers Rebel\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"  1st Snow was a kind of hand-wringing heat; mine burned psychedelic red with it. Where your footsteps trod, it cast blue shadows like a methane fire. 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