Winter in War and Peace

The following poem, written in two parts, was inspired by the accompanying artworks and is written in tribute to the Ukrainian people during the invasion of their country by Russia.


Winter Landscape by Wassily Kandinsky (Russia) 1909

We do not welcome winter in Russia –
It is bitter and reminds us of war.
There is no picturesque sunset
Or field full of pink and yellow flowers.

The path to the farmhouse is cold
And our boots wear dangerously thin
But we must trudge on further still
Because wars are there to be won.

They are not won by big campaigns,
But by the smallest of decisions or incidents;
Battles turn on a razor’s edge
Thinner than the bare, frozen twigs.

These wars are won by soldiers
On a desolate island outpost
Telling an enemy warship
To well and truly go fuck itself.

Or maybe by women confronting soldiers
On the street where they might be shot
Holding out seeds for them to carry in their pockets
So sunflowers will grow where they die.

Wars a won by a soldier sacrificing himself
That many more might live,
And that the enemy shall not advance
Across bridges no longer there.

Or perhaps by ordinary people
Taking down street signs around the city
To confuse invading forces
And bring smiles to local faces.

Wars are won by allowing enemy combatants
To phone their families far away
To tell them they are safe and sound
In stark difference to propaganda seen.

Or they are won by men stopping to offer
A tow back to the border
To broken-down enemy tanks
Pulled over on the side of the road.

Wars are won by neighbours and friends
Refusing to refuel or give supplies
To invaders, aggressors and intruders
Who assumed victory would be easily had.

Or possibly by farmers and their tractors
Stealing away with the vehicles of war,
Leaving abandoned young men
Who know not what is they are fighting for.

We can see a house a little way up
Standing proud in the remains of the day
But even though it’s in our homeland
We fear the reception we might receive –

Because wars are not won with might,
They are won with humanity and courage,
With ingenuity, selflessness and defiance
Against a force that should not exist.

And though we wear a military uniform
And have a great war machine at our backs
We are no match for civilians
With a sense of humour in the face of such madness.


Winter Landscape by Kazimir Malevich (Ukraine) c. 1920s

We welcome winter in Ukraine –
It is stinging but reminds us of peace.
There are pristine, snow-covered trees
Not yet blooming with pink and yellow flowers.

The path through the forest is masked
And our boots leave heavy indents
But we soldier on to the town
Because peace is there to be won.

It is not won by big campaigns,
But by a people who will not surrender;
Battles begin and end in these towns
By sheer determination and will.

Peace is won by soldiers
Defending the land they love
Against an encroaching enemy
Who do not want to be there.

Or maybe by civilians taking an oath
On the streets where they live and work
To remain, to fight, to make peace
So others can return and be free.

Peace is won by standing together
Shoulder to shoulder, breast to breast
As the trees which shelter us now
Have stood tall and proud.

Or perhaps by children huddled
In shelters and refugee camps
Who will grow like acorns planted
To thrive in the land of their birth.

Peace is won by the surrender
Of conscripts tricked into a fight
They do not want or understand
Nor have a heart to fight.

Or it is won by friends in hostile lands
Flying flags of solidarity
In the face of incarceration
And an uncertain, frightening future.

Peace is won by neighbours
Refusing to see an enemy at the gate
But a people seeking temporary relief
From a force seeking to destroy them.

Or possibly by parents with broken hearts
As they say goodbye to their children,
Seeing them off on trains and buses
For destinations far away.

We can see the houses of the town
Standing proud of the snow drifts and swirls
As planes who bring nought but destruction
Fly perilously close overhead.

Peace is not won with military might,
But with the might of a heart that is full,
With brains, altruism and boldness
Against a regime not of this land.

And though there are no uniforms here
We are battalions amongst the trees
Dodging bullets and mortar fire
To bring forth a peace that will last.

The Seasons

06/05/2020 - Iso Well-Being Compilation 



You are cold like the winter,

Aloof and indifferent,

Making you hard to read

And keeping me at arm’s length.



You run hot like summer months,

Easy to anger,

Firey and unpredictable,

And I am running scared.



You’re warm like springtime,

Wrapping me in your arms,

Telling me everything will be ok

And I am drawn in all over again.



You are cool as an autumn breeze,

Hinting at what’s to come,

So tantalizingly calm,

But I have to get away.

Ode to Winter

I woke this morning to a muted light

Struggling to make its way through the seemingly frosted glass

Except it wasn’t that cold last night

It was merely the condensation filling the pane

Creating the illusion of winter’s cold grip.

As it cleared, the freshly washed blue sky shone,

A billion particles reflecting a light not their own,

That had travelled millions of miles to see me.

Somewhere in the trees I heard a cockatoo squawk,

It’s high-pitched call piercing my ears

And jolting me fully awake and aware of my surroundings.

The floorboards were like ice as I swung my feet down,

A rude shock after the warmth of the down doona,

And it made me recoil for a moment,

not wanting to make the trip across its unforgiving surface.

Arise I must, even if my bed is so inviting,

To face another day of brisk air and too many clothes,

While hurriedly chasing errands that never seem to end.

The café around the corner is calling to me,

It’s walls line with books and the tables nestled in,

Inviting me to rest my weary bones, enjoy the warmth

And, perhaps, indulge in a cup of peppermint tea

With a small lemon tart beside.

Afterwards, as I meander home past the park,

Children are laughing and playing,

Their beanies slipping over their eyes

As they play chasing games on the grass.

They argue with their mothers over having to wear those gloves,

The ones grandma made last winter,

As their fingers turn a delicious shade of blue.

Shops advertise their specials – scarves and bed socks,

Hooded jackets and woollen pants for every occasion,

But none catch my fancy as I wrap my cardigan a little tighter

Against the fresh breeze straight off the Antarctic.

Finally, I have returned home to the snuggly comfort of the couch,

A cat curled in the slight bend of my knee,

And a good book to read as I await the child from school,

Jumper left in a classroom and lunch half eaten, no doubt.