“Seascape of the Isle of Wight,” Albert Julius Olsson, WikiArt.

Frosted window, bedroom-entering chill,
Sunrise grey-clouded light, floor cold on
Bare feet. Fireside hearth-room, I, Willow,
Took first sips of warming tea, mother
Porridge stirring, Papa arm-loads of peat.
“What is it?” I asked, door-pushing winds
This May morn. “North-Sea storm,” Papa
Replied, no time for breakfast, two gruff
Words stated: “Get dressed.” Few tastes
Of porridge, first flakes of falling snow,
Seaward spiraling in stiff breeze.

“She’ll be bad,” fisherman said to Papa,
Bent-walking into wind, hard pull on my
Hand, to beaching fishing boats, reefed
Sails wind-foundering. For certain, winter
Gale bore down, eye-captivating clouds.
Edge of surf I stood, mesmerized, blowing
Snow, dark malevolence descending, full
Week of May. “Willow, bare poles.” Sails
From masts, booms removed, boats
Higher on beach hard-heaved, fishers
Overturned, hulls facing  dirty weather.

To cottage flowered trees I fled, spring so
Winter conflicted, white petals wind-mixing
With snowflakes, eyes perplexed, peering
Into opalescent clouds, I could not tell one
From other. Distant clifftop howling, slate-
Grey clouds on foreshores, fleeting glance,
Tree branches waving petal-bare, to my
Mother, I returned, such sights shared,
Porridge, bread, tea, island life explained:
“For now, spring’s soft-scented days gave
Way to North-Sea storms.”

Poem for spring snow flurries and storms in Atlantic Canada,
more so Newfoundland-Labrador. Thanks for reading.

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