1
It may be brief,
and true you wake in darkness
to slog the grim hours of a grinding day.
Emerging from dusked school,
trailing drear ways,
in mouth metallic tang,
from jostling shops,
where day has long receded,
jollied by pearl-strung- LEDs*
or looking up from piled in-tray
at darkened apertures reflecting room -
where has the daylight gone?
2
Green-gold leaves (illuminated privet)
prove azure an edgy colour-partner
as they breeze-fidget. Below them dark thorn,
bare to the barb that's patient for a thumb.
White-gold across the back-fence neighbour's roof -
where eyes turn to sun for their punishment,
as if you could heat a mind by blinding;
while finger-ends (gnawed at half-heartedly
by a cold unwarmed to his chilling task)
willing subordinates, will toughen up.
Contrails dissolve as they emerge. Jets fly
so ghosting-high you hardly hear their growl
but birds with shining wings flit quickly by,
their feathers trapping characters of sun
to bear with them from cover to cover.
........................
* White LEDs - town Christmas lights, of course.
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...
