Silhouette of big black fly
I thought within my window blinds
and woken from a winter dream
within some colder crevice of the house
is outside tramping down the window glass.
The dandelion's opening
this sunlit February day that sparrows twit in,
expressively as spring,
stretching another dazzled smile upon my face.
Yet not much's left of nettles now;
taken a few frosts in the killing of -
a few more, to be sure, will be supplied.
This clean season's the minimum,
already claimed by snowdrops as their own;
but the fly the dandelion, the sparrows,
the palisades of yew and privet hedge
all want a piece of this deep sun-bask,
as indeed do I, closing eyes and drifting
in the carmine, the crimson, the scarlet,
aftermaths of greens and purples -
sipping a coffee blissfully.
A kind of sleepwalking replenishes the bird-feeder
for Ra's a meditation guru:
his immanent hand
lights upon our brow and quietens us
with inner transcendence.
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...
