A February Day In Saissac Poem by poppy miller

February Day In Saissac

You don't see the dense mist coming down.
It creeps like a spy on cushioned feet.
Grey and thick (not quite a ‘ London particular')
But very much like the houses it washes over.
And the pines, the backdrop of the village,
So weighted down with the rain. Too miserable
To even sigh at the dismal weather. They sulk
And hide in their cloudy retreats in a dark chain of silence.

I watch the people with their grey faces, bent with the chill.
Blood running through their veins like iced juice as the mercury plummets.
Look how they scutter through streets, like rats when the barn door opens;
Seeking refuge from the damp that steeps into their bones, turning the marrow to mush.
Brollies clashing with brollies as they dash round corners.

They don't see crystal raindrops tinkling romantic tunes off
Rooftops and blades of grass, or hear birdsong greeting the morn.
They see washing on clotheslines, hanging like deceased souls.
The builders, outdoor tradesmen, wrought with woe. Rained off,
wondering how long it will be before they can work again.
Their heads and eyes downcast,
Knowing that payday will see a pile of pound-less wage packets.

The women who don't hear the sound of childrens' lilting laughter.
They hear the base notes of hacking coughs; see red rimmed eyes
That silently plead to the white witch for the miracle cure
While they wipe their snotty noses.

But all is not as miserable as I make it sound.

They seek out Merlin the magician, at their local pharmacy
who welcomes them with open arms and tender smiles.
He doles out little parcels of magic potions and words of comfort.
He's so happy to help them (God bless him)
Soon, from the small amount he has made from his potions, he
will take a short break in the Bahamas for six months;
while mother's fill their trash cans with potions and pray to the sun god.
And as sure as God made little green apples, winter will return
and all will begin again.

©
14/2/2016