The long, deep-purple foray
of old nettle stalks being done,
the little ones about their bases thriving,
sheltered in that thinning of the hedge
where bramble stems provide the verticals,
thus the wild's entrained within our purposes.
Across the sky the wind's technique
rates high for variety, triple layered,
the smokiest below
(I hold a row of nine point fives)
and what bright-bellied sail the moon
zenith-wards holds world-steady
to meet those sprays -
cutting through them, as undaunted
as a great white's fin.
A pigeon lands on the roof of the tall
boxed bird table, empty of course,
turns pointedly a circle -
and thus the wild entrains me:
I've come home.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
ŞiirIvy-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...
