Saturday Poetry Corner 56: The Darkling Thrush

Today is a day with snow, and frost, and a bird. Provided by Thomas Hardy, who already appeared on this blog.

Winter is coming

   Sorry for lack of any activity here, but my invisibility will last until December 10th. On the day before, one conference takes place and I have loads to prepare.

But when I close and settle everything, I will troll and I will spam yet again! Kind of resurrection soon.

I'm also looking for a new flat with one condition I'm taking as the guidepost - warm. All I need is more than 15 degrees in the winter, and I don't find it too extravagant. The place I live now doesn't even deserve the rent fee, not to mention private owner fee.

When snow hits my city, I will post some pictures as well, hopefully my shoes will be fixed then, my DVD drive will be fixed then, and chain of my extremely bad luck this year will be broken then.

Oh, snow in December? No way...

Leoprint - the king of patterns.

   Imagine yourself in the middle of hissing sounds. Those sounds come closer and die out, they tell you about the rest, the neverending rest in the white, soft, impeccable bed of sparkle. Everything around seems as if taken from a fairy tale. There are many different fairy tales, this one is made of the hissing void. The wind on your face comes as if mountains breathed into you. The strong, primordial breath of the caves and halls deep inside, where the dark corners are even darker because they never knew of the light. You can almost hear the whisper, the voice, husky and sharp, yet barely audible. The voice tells you about frozen clouds where no bird dares to fly.

And the hissing sounds are accompanied by snowflakes that burn your skin in their final flight. The wind makes the air smells of ammonia and blood... The whole air sparkles, the fireflies of snow fall from the sky and you have this eerie feeling you are treading on diamonds in the middle of some maelstrom of cutting needles...

I hate it.