The sigh's the size of it -
wound through restless
bud-stirring boughs.
Wheels press on tarmac -
after their passing roar
sigh far afade.
Electric chainsaw has its ups and downs -
following a neighbour's exertion,
falls a pause,
some brief release.
And I too, here,
almost as almond-real
as I get,
now that love's long black valleys
have reft me,
finding myself a glass half-full,
sigh to leave my parents' garden.
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...
