I didn't plan to see this first daygold
or hear the birds chitter-cheep and
flurry-fling themselves from roof to roof
chasing excitement at the spilling light
while roads howl their workday load
and the clean trees stand arty in the buff,
classic recognition in the wintering mind.
A blackbird warns of poets from a thorn
A sleepy pigeon hides atop the yew
as just another lump-clump of the tree
smoother curiosity to puzzle out,
till listless jerk-neck gives the game away.
A day so indecisive as to gleam or grey
the dirty brooding clouds struck by the sun,
white smudges sponged in sun-glow.
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...
