Old sun props the sky-lid up to shine,
standing on the roof apex out back -
light levering me into blinking calm.
Been waiting for me, maybe,
while I trudged the town for makings
of a Christmas sure to come,
ready or not.
At least the coffee's not too hot -
and tastes of whisky - odd is that.
Mote-flies right. Speck flies left.
Snapdragon senses the utter lack of competition here,
so is taking time to spring
a hydra's worth of yellow jaws.
And intermittently the gulls glide by.
Oh, the pleasantries of dove's
wheezing coo in tail-braking descent
and the rusty hinges
of crow's familiar insistency -
that tearing-up of all contracts
with the ultimate reassurance
that dark does always stand ajar
to a jet imagination
'and what dreams may come'.
Sparrow's happy to sit on hedge
thorn-twig-spike
eyeing the feeder
and blackbird's hop-happy at the garden back
to help himself to apple flesh again -
and it all more than
makes up for lack of sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-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...
