Marbled moon-clouds ride above the town.
On red we stop; on green we drive -
and the shining veins slide
above roof apexes and tile-waved ridges.
Within her dark, smoky scarving
she resiles; and then, unmantled a while,
peers out, that pale, drained lady
self effacing,
veiled again,
as if Medusa's kinder, skybound relative -
pitying the victims, vulnerable lunatics,
eyes, doors flung wide in antic wonder yet,
scarred lovers who wear their hearts
upon their snuffled, tear-soaked sleeves -
she seeks seclusion:
she would not devastate today,
her fullness wrapped away,
pupating.
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...
