Chris O’Carroll One face surveys the long, cold month behind, One contemplates the deep, short freeze ahead. Too much of nature on your watch, you find, Is more than metaphorically dead.
Yours is the standstill at the end and start: The pied, bright spring will flourish from this ice; Refreshed from every flower’s fragrant heart, The air will soften as it wells with spice;
From silver frost a golden sun will climb, Gilding green pastures, warming every beach; The crops and herds will fatten in their time, Full of those lessons plenty has to teach;
But once brief bounty has been stored away, The harsher lessons learned from scarcity Will loom; the cold truth of the shortest day Will dim the world your backward gaze can see.
Alan Millard Of January wary be! The fairy on the Christmas tree Can wave no more her magic wand, She’s in the loft, she won’t respond. A cold east wind from Europe blows But what it augurs no one knows, It bites the ears and seems to moan ‘We’ll freeze you out. You’re on your own.’ Then, turning to the west, we hear The Mighty Trump sound loud and clear: A wild, discordant blast that hails More vehement storms and violent gales; This month bodes ill but all’s not lost, The spring might yet unfreeze the frost, And kinder months are on their way, There’s always hope, there’s always May!
Paul Carpenter Cooler month, you find us huddled In the ashes, ex-Noelled; Overhung, contrite and muddled Needing Christmas fog dispelled.
Mark our faces, whitened, ashen, Pull us up and set us straight. January, with compassion Save us from this chastened state.
Back to work now firmly send us; Pay no heed to our complaints. With new discipline amend us, Set our boundaries, cast constraints.
Slowly then, reveal your glory: Longer days to which we cling; Month of firsts, renew our story, Send us hopeful into spring.
Katie Mallett January now. It should be cold, Freezing breath and slippery underfoot With frost and hoary leaves in every fold Of earth, its hard and wizened face like soot Where spiders’ webs and scattered dirt streak out From corners where the hose has splashed in pots. But still the soil is soft and through it sprout The sturdy spears of daffodils and knots Of tiny seedlings. Still the cannas stand Erect and green, like loyal sentries fixed On duty as the seasons’ change is spanned, And autumn’s death and spring’s new life are mixed. But who knows what the morning light will show — Cold sexton winter still could bring us snow.
Basil Ransome-Davies There are three months that start with J: January, June, July. June leads July but follows May. Does anyone know why?
In June the weather’s fairly warm; In July much the same. But rain and sleet and icy storm? That’s January’s game.
June as we know can name a girl. July is Caesar’s tag. Cold January’s a cruel churl, A murderous old lag.
As sensual souls beneath the moon We can enjoy a flux Of pleasure in July and June, But January sucks.
Frank McDonald We welcome you and yet you turn your back On thoughts of spring, presenting snow and ice. Our streets are traps, our pavements icy black And bleakness wrapped in bleakness is your vice. December loved our generosity And rang her bells with optimistic joy But you arrived with animosity To inconvenience, anger and annoy. There was a time in childhood when your snow Had playful kindness and you even smiled; Now that our steps are warier and slow We are your playthings, rattled and reviled. And so, dark month, we do not call you friend But shiver till your tribulations end.
Thanks go to @huntthesnark on Twitter for the next challenge, which is to take as your first line ‘I am the very model of a Very Stable Genius’ and continue for up to a further 15. Email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 24 January, please.
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