A fair blue day and white-gold zephyr-cold,
the constant sun has lifted from the frost;
and though fridge-chilled, yet has beautified
cages of fruit trees, burnishing the hedge -
populations of leaf-mirrors nodding
and ruffling sun-gilt. A day that sparrows'
insistency is pinced by robin's comments,
and a silence falls that pigeons will not break
to steal the thunder from a judder-lorry.
As fingers freeze I smile and feel caressed
by sunlight on my cheekbone:
"Go on, then!
Take us for granted!" goads the Sun-boat,
Set twirling his long spear this deep parade.
"These are eternities your little life
steals from night with the common animal.
Drink up the peace that cannot be, yet is.
Be part of our alchemy, gold-cheeked and gone."
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...
