Poem: ‘Winter’ by Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch

 ‘Winter’, from Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch’s new pamphlet Lime & Winter, published by Rack Press and out in January, is a poem about a woman separated from a lover, who spends the dreary days cooped up indoors, avoiding her lover, who is still an ever-present in the village, and her female neighbours who, she suspects, have stolen his heart. This poem will make you yearn for summer more than ever, despite the fact that the narrator in ‘Winter’ wants nothing more than to shut everything else out and remain fixated on her sewing machine, passed on from her grandmother, and hopes that the glorious shine and colour of summer, when it does arrive, will be lost, with her former lover, through the newly-fitted frosted-glass windows.




The view of the field from my kitchen

over to the North York moors is not as green

since you left with your carpenters awl.

Youre still in the village, up ladders,

down cellars, sawing cupboard doors

for other women. The oaks have shaken the leaves



from their hair. I blinked. Now youre building

thirty-four houses in the meadow

beside mine. Ive changed each pane

to frosted glass which distorts any thought

of you. So although the cataract in the glass

means Ill no longer see the edge



of each leaf in detail on the trees

that remain in the orchard next door

when summer finally arrives, at least

the blur of walls will force me to focus

on the needle of my grandmothers

sewing machine. As I sit in the shadow



of the years she stood at a spinning mule

up north, all the factory windows frosted

like permanent winter, Ill remember

this was the lens through which she saw

the stream washing the celandines

in the woods of the valley at Styal.