Eleanor Westwood Lives in Devon and many of her poems are inspired by local landscapes and the changing seasons.
As the day begins in the dark and the seed in
the soil the year begins in winter
honouring the north, the night, the earth.
The freshly-washed sky greets us between leafless branches
which bicker for the sun's attention
for a seam of warmth and the chance to throw shadows.
Long-tailed tits chatter in the brambles.
Truly one season carries the germ of the next,
buds have already formed on the chestnut and hazel
and some catkins brave the chilled air.
Soon the winter heliotrope with its blackcurrant scent,
impossibly summery, will lap against the path.
In this mild climate winter doesn't gnash its teeth.
But we mark it, we mark it within
with a bow to the ancestors,
a blessing for those who will greet the winter after us
and their descendants stretching forward into time and grace.
Welcoming the Winter © Eleanor Westwood 2020
is what is left
when everything else is lost
And when you are scrabbling around in the dust
trying to blow on the embers of the fire
You realise that the ground you have fallen onto
Under the hard baked earth there is a richer soil
alive with roots drawing up living water
The bud on the twig swells in the darkness
The furthermost root drinks from the earth
The crescent moon sails across the
forest like a coracle h
olding a promise.
Hope © Eleanor Westwood 2014