The kingdom of the evergreen so proves
a bright efficacy of winter sun,
that these short days no palisade's undone,
that solstice runnels groove the stone. It moves!
These shock-troops ivy-clad the oaken way
in animations of a strobing light;
and winds conspire to bring a rough delight,
making bards of yew: word hoards lurch and sway.
And so, a well-clad Jack at dark's bewray*,
dressed in my greens of garden, I sit still
to watch the blackbird forage through decay,
last flesh of windfalls, flicking yellow bill.
Though empty hearts have little left to play,
sun-diamond leaves transmute, and fire my will.
....................................
*archaic... from Middle English 'accuse'
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...
