After these ends we leave accusation:
there are head-in-hand minutes of a day
and moments when we grip the driving wheel -
and all these things we generally don't say.
From these ends we leave self-accusation:
though moments might murmur, "What can I do?"
We stare through raindrops, dazzled by a glare
and wonder at regrets that run us through.
Yet rage will shake us with his cat o'nine;
the habit's deep ingrained, tantrums deny,
because we want to walk free in sunshine
and leave the past behind, be healed, be fine.
Gentle head-shake. Old mother wry-smiles me:
"It's all mixed up - wild fruit in a thorny lea."
..............................
This ends Greenclad
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...
