| Introduction White Out was written during the severe winter of 2010–2011 whilst I was living alone in a static caravan in rural Lincolnshire. Having recently come to terms with my Asperger’s diagnosis and the end of a significant relationship, I had chosen a quieter life, working with horses and sharing my days with my two dogs. The winter was harsh beyond anything I have experienced since. There were times when the blizzard outside felt warmer than the thin metal walls of the caravan itself. The original poem reflects my admiration for the stark beauty of that extraordinary winter. Although the landscape appeared bleak and unforgiving, there was also a quiet romance to the snow-covered countryside that never failed to leave me in awe. I have left the poem exactly as it was written because it captures both the hardship and the beauty of that remarkable season. The companion poem looks back with the benefit of time. It is not simply a reflection on an unforgettable winter, but on the man who endured it. What once felt like a lonely chapter has become one of the defining periods of my life, reminding me that the hardest seasons often shape us long before we recognise what they are preparing us for. Together, these two poems tell the story of a winter remembered not only for its snow but also for the quiet resilience born beneath it. |
| White Out Silence surrounds me so, An eerie fog lingering in the still air, With not a hint of wind to blow, This sadness away from here, I feel, all of this bleak day, From morn till dusk, Will be under this darkened way As winter drains the land to a husk, Such desolation befallen on my gaze, And with winter in full throe, Still can l not fail to be amazed, At the romanticism that is bestowed, Upon lands as far as my eyes can see, Covered in such a fine white display, And despite such bitterness, truest beauty, On this dreary and miserable day, Stark trees standing alone in the mist, A whisper of their former selves, Naked and bare an’ covered in crisp, Traces of last night’s hard weather, And yet still, do l stand in such awe, Of mother nature’s visible pleasures, With her artistic ability to draw, My attention to her wintry demure, Never fail will l, to so admire, The romantically inclined countryside, Of my home here in Lincolnshire, As ‘tis with me in heart and soul tied. © Rory Matier 2010/11 |
| Beyond the White The Second Verse I often think of winters past, When Lincolnshire wore her crown, Of endless fields in silent white, As snow came drifting down. I think not first of frozen trees, Nor skies of leaden grey, But of a lonely metal home, Where I would end each day. Its walls were thin against the cold, The nights both long and still, The bitter wind beyond the door, Would test the strongest will. The strangest truth I learnt back then, Still makes me gently smile; The blizzard blowing through the yard, Felt warmer all the while. The horses waited for the dawn, The dogs lay close at hand, Whilst questions far too great for one, Filled every thought I’d planned. I searched for answers everywhere, In silence and in snow, Believing I must understand, Before my life could grow. Yet time has shown a kinder truth, One I could never see; The answers were not lost at all, They were still becoming me. The winter was not sent to break, The man I was back then; It simply stripped away the noise, So I could start again. No audience stood watching there, No praise, no grand acclaim; Just one man with his faithful dogs, Still learning his own name. The snow has never quite returned, The way it settled then; I’ve searched through many winters since, Yet not found it again. Perhaps that winter’s greatest gift, Was never snow at all; But showing me that strength is found, When every comfort falls. And now, when frost adorns the fields, Or morning mists appear, I no longer mourn that vanished time… For part of me Will always Still be living there. © Rory Matier 2026 |
| Some poems are written for a moment in time. Others quietly wait for time to answer them. Echoes Through the Garden – The Second Verse revisits poems first written years ago, not to rewrite or replace them, but to continue the conversation. Seen through the eyes of a gardener, a naturalist and the passing of years, each original poem is accompanied by a new companion piece, offering fresh understanding shaped by experience, seasons and the quiet lessons the garden has taught. Together, they become two verses of the same story—one written then, the other written now. |
The Gardener's Curious Journal 