Splintered Ice

by Jean Jones

jeantatton@yahoo.co.uk

 

 

If I’d been asked a little while ago

What sadness is and where it tends to grow,

I might have said it looms in loveless lives

And lingers still in dark and shady paths,

Then whispers from the swaying trees at dusk

Or slowly seeps from reservoirs of tears.

 

I’d not have said that sadness would deceive

And seek to hide in thinly veiled disguise,

Withdraw us to the dark with covered eyes.

I’d not have said that sadness then would seem

Quicksilver on the spin of chance that tilts

And rests so near the edge of happiness.

 

I’d still not say, because I still don’t know,

If sadness is the centre or the tip

Of some submerged iceberg, I only know

That in my heart is splintered ice

That was not there a little while ago. 

 ©2006 Jean Jones

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