Winter Comes Cruelly

Winter Comes Cruelly

What manner of love is this -
That sneaks in loneliness
to be fulfilled alone;
That nods and smiles
hardly hearing;
That lines the ground in
poisoned eggshells all around,
a crunchy mine field
of subtle deadliness.

What manner of love, indeed -
That inspires tug-of-war
manipulations;
That sets me, a ringed board,
in the arrow field;
That hordes its measly cup
of nectar joy
where, smelling, I recall
but never taste.

What manner of love is ours -
if love it may be called
after such a long silence;
for love was meant to nourish,
not deplete, a heart's soil.
It is fermented now,
not juice or wine, but vinegar
and a chilly allusion to a kiss
that you hardly remember.

(c) Tasha Chinnock 2006