Maggie Freeman

Winter sun

Winter sun enters the arched window
gilding the white plaster, slanting the rectangles
of the window bars into parallelograms
a dark grid of intersecting lines
like roads traversing a snowy landscape
a map where the houses are hidden
within the snow-paper, only the road showing
as if what is important is always the route
and not the destination

not the hesitation
at the crossroads, the puzzle
of left or right or straight on or maybe
turning round and going back, except that
the road travelled can’t be undone

and every road leads to another one
until the sunlight shifts and each route
is swallowed in the obscurity of the shadow
that conceals a great city, or forest, or meadow, or marsh:
take your pick.

I was born in Trinidad, and lived there and in Tobago, growing up on isolated coconut estates. When I was ten I moved with my family to England — a strange cold grey land where people had to wear shoes all the time, and shared houses with other families - so strange that seemed to me! I’m settled happily enough in an Essex semi now. I’ve written poetry for years, and I’m a member of the Essex group Adamantine. Maybe it’s that same discipline and order, the trying to get things right, that makes me love poetry. And loving the music of words.

I was born in Trinidad, and lived there and in Tobago, growing up on isolated coconut estates. When I was ten I moved with my family to England — a strange cold grey land where people had to wear shoes all the time, and shared houses with other families – so strange that seemed to me! I’m settled happily enough in an Essex semi now. I’ve written poetry for years, and I’m a member of the Essex group Adamantine. Maybe it’s the trying to get things right, that makes me love poetry. And loving the music of words.