A mild, dull day the restless birds may sing,
intermittently, simple bar-coders
trying out trills and flourishes. Robin
admonishes, wincing at their efforts.
Binary returns and then a pigeon soothes.
Oh, hardly stirs the shaggy droops of yew;
dead grass-stalks tremble out of old habit;
a damp cagoule's unsteady on the line.
Sometimes I think the birds try much harder
than I do - so then refill their feeder.
I guess some days in winter we sleepwalk
through, till an evening feast lights up our smiles.
Nights are drawing out, stranding us, untidy,
dumb, on the tide-line of a deeper dusk.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoesíaIvy-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...
