The dandelions keep trying it on.
Oh, they push up expectantly enough,
and look the business, now, quite the wide boys.*
But nothing tears these cerements of cloud
and so they hide their golden heads; ochre
tufts forlornly peer from ribbed sepal hoods,
the worse for wear as nights dally with frost
and a damp chill waits on dusk to exhale.
..........................
*'Wide boy' is a British term for a man who lives by his wits, wheeling and dealing.
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...
