On a chair-dry noon
under greycloak sky,
sandwich-made remains;
cheese and onion (raw),
breadcrumbs and herbs,
Joe and I
“Go trampoline, cheer up, Joe.
This time only springs shall shriek
now Dadda's up from stony sleep.”
Wind is not so raw,
tree sticks clean and bare;
plenty green enough
in the garden here.
Blackbird comes to feast
on apple's hollow sphere;
shy mate flops out-hedge too
this bold time of year.
Wind blows them both away -
a big-cat moves flanks through
brushing past, storm purr in tongued groove -
but only rainspit from the grey
blurs my words
and rags the paper.
A jest from a mild day.
The usual ruffling resumes
its ruminations, absent-mindedly,
troubles in remove
another sleep to prove.
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...
