Winter of Discontent
The air over Europe is clear and cold
on my terrace the parasol is down flaps
slightly like the sail on a becalmed caravel.
The pond near, the houses, is frozen solid,
the sun has no power, but makes nature
look like a pretty postcard
As the pond compassion is hard packed
too, the ground I walk on is unyielding;
this is the face of bitter unhappiness.
Amongst the voiceless olive trees a bird
shrieks a warning and in the stillness
that follows I hear drums of war.
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