A little fly on pale wings in still air
(on such a mild day winter's pin will ease)
casually floating three sides of a square -
two grey dots chasing, eager to be pleased.
Sparrows chirrup-chit, meep-si-op so loud
(some of hard legwork, hedge and nests to come)
the sun is warm between dark, frowning clouds
and bramble's fuse is lit, though long to run.
I'm pondering on fraying ends of dreams;
sublimated messages meet with air;
and pigeons mantras resonate, it seems,
ineffable associations there.
From startling contexts in a jeweled night,
our meanings scatter, tangling in their flight.
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...
