For that was the winter we listened to Enya
complaining that the porridge was too hot,
or too cold, complaining that she would have
preferred jewelled quinoa, or a quart of gin,
complaining that the cost of first class post
was outrageous, that her bins had – again –
neither been emptied, nor blessed by a coven
of skyclad wiccans with rococo birthmarks
and extravagant libidos, complaining about
the regularity – or otherwise – of her morning
motions, complaining about the rain, about
the absence of rain, complaining endlessly,
beautifully, incessantly, never once repeating
herself, never pausing for breath, creating
a soaring hymn of grudges, a glorious litany
of gripes, her voice ringing from chimney breast
to cooking pot and back again as we crouched
silent by the cold ashes of the long-dead fire
and the world turned and the planets moved
through the heavens, and the days shrank
to next to nothing, then grew again, all winter
long we listened to Enya sing out her frustrations,
were lost in dumbstruck admiration, slack-jawed,
open-mouthed, all of us, and never once complained.
(opening line from a list of ‘discarded opening lines for a poem’ by Brian Bilston)
runner up in the 2026 Wirral Poetry Competition