The curlicues of dead grass-blades,
so Art Nouveau, or dinky present-wrapping,
are more eloquent, more expressive than I;
the sparrows have so much to say, too
(Go to! Go to!) in such repetitive insistency!
Oh, I am falling silent after many moons:
it's not Writer's Block, nor February glooms
nor worry for a friend (though nails are quick-bitten).
It's something as deep as dusk on dusk -
and this, with odd salmon patches, is deep grey.
Sometimes I feel like 'the busy world' - need hushing.
Lullaby. Lullaby. Roll-on half-term holiday.
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...
