Not the warmest day of the year,
fingers squeezed by cold screws,
words slowed and slewed
labour over numbing paper;
and now a smoky cloud-bank careens over
a rooftop sun;
and ashen the elder
stripped of sun-foil;
nettles nod
to their bowed fate.
One thing I have learned,
stumbling somewhat blindly
through this last year or more,
getting by:
whatever state or misshape I am in.
I'm acceptable to my children,
rallying round robustly
so that fun can then be focused on -
and that is not so far from a state of grace.
The grand cloud-bank passes, replaced
by a series of more domestic occlusions,
sun-edged smoke
wisps caught in a search-beam;
then the bright crevasse:
golden majesty
rolling along the jags
peering (pince-nez) from his carriage
through the jostling, streaming mob.
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...
