New Year's Day

80 33 5
                                    

Grey cats behind the trellis steal;
they must go elsewhere for their meal.
To bare, neuronal, budded tree,
let not a thought synapse from me.

New Year dips to a few degrees;
no frost brings Green Man to his knees.
So quiet-still under these grey skies
till gusts begin antipathies.

Let small birds dart and small birds twit
with nothing to be read from it.
Let gulls blow skewed about grey air,
riding this casual winter there,

while lucky we, in warm and snug
shall raise a glass to drain the jug,
signal our wide sympathies,
sunk  deep in well-deserved ease.



WinteringWhere stories live. Discover now