A nettle remnant hanging on by scraps
where frost has withered or grey-edged and blotched;
overwintering brambles holding hard;
the rot beneath the apple boughs is slowed,
though many fallen joined the rich black soil;
and yet the grass has never lost lost a lush
and here's a new dandelion sentinel,
thick and squat and equal to the task,
should gripping winter weaken or relent.
At least no worse and they will have a shout
of yellow out a veined hood, good as could -
no matter that a morning-frost coats cars
and tepid pans must sluice the windscreens twice -
they'll try it on, they'll try-out February.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-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...
