We folded our tents, uncluttered and left
my sister's mezzanine-style hillside-house
making our way back by idiot-proof roadsigns -
"Left. That way that way! Lucky no police!" -
to London and round it, returned to roads
more mystifyingly congested.
What?
A tailback in a fenland wilderness?
Commuter exodus to rural homes,
lolling sunlight blessing prodigally.
Those trees with such Fauvist*, dark-green shadows
across a grassy bank -
hedge, brush, twig-rake
gilded red-gold, sunset crimson,
orange
afterglow, uncontained by cloud, free-ranged
the demi-hemisphere as we drove North.
...................
*Fauvism - think Van Gogh and Gauguin - uses colors for light and shade (much less of the black and white).
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...
