In all the murkiest places,
in the frozen soil of a February vegetable bed
or in red-lit darkrooms - whether overseen
by a lax-minded bohemian barkeeper
or a disciplined old-school photographers –
the process is the same.
What seems the most opaque contains
the greatest promise. The inkiest loam,
the unyieldingly clenched tuber or fist,
the grimmest face: there are a million
metaphors for winter
and for each a catalyst.
A first glimpse of spring to warm
a buried bulb. A twinkle in a yellowed eye
that unzips a stranger’s concealed heart.
A burst of light to cast joyous inversions
across the waiting silvered paper, to make
a forbidding pitch-black mouth blossom
into a white-toothed smile as it swims
into view in a fizzing tray of chemistry.
There is no universal fixative
to sustain these early fruits.
Hope is a spritz of hairspray
in a wind tunnel, but we apply it
just the same. Cross two fingers
that we’ll be ambushed by riches
as we gambol round a thawing lake,
or stub a toe on a treasure chest,
half-buried in the reeds.
Dave Wakely’s writing has been shortlisted for the Manchester Fiction and Bath Short Story awards, and appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Online Programme Manager for Milton Keynes Literary Festival, he lives in Buckinghamshire with his husband.