Cold War 

Andrew Spreadborough

A poem from the Spring 1990 edition of Prism. 

 

Spring’s lilacs burst through damp sod-

but my impulsive laughter: backslaps and chuckles, 

stays hidden. 

I can feel the war now finally, it’s not buried

beneath my aloof mask of quiet confidence, 

it’s not submissive to the comfort

of distant observations, 

 

and it’s not strong as my silent wall. 

My forgetful snow, 

once covering my will and passion-

frozen by pinpricks of mirrored needles to a hard ice- 

has been exposed to the melting sun. 

 

This disruption is demanding- I can’t reach you. 

All I feel is the tearing of fabric, 

I hesitate most times, when questioned or spoken to- 

again feel the pinpricks- again the eyes on my life. 

I’m caught inside this egocentric veil, 

divided between my weak needs

and sensed expectations-

an isolated child resurfaces. 

 

But the light of longer days has pierced my roots

and uncovered the nagging slaps to the jaw- 

the jarring within- the drought that is 

a very long winter.