The grey at day's end
deepens as we sit
snacking black olives,
waiting on my daughter's cooking.
Joe with his gleeful laugh at nothing
breaking the wuther of a gusty gloom
so infectiously I am smiling at
the whole tranche of incipient February
giggling as last-light finds a patch of blue,
recalling morning raptors
active over bypass verges,
saw-winged buzzard
spilled a missed dive,
peregrine climbing
the dead in its claws,
a common kestrel
patiently adroit;
and how trees blew starling clouds
out of them a full six seconds -
my car speeding through - whoo-
the sky-blackening throng.
Oh. Let's snigger into dusk-husk.
Another olive, boy?
How did I get four on a fork?.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
