The leaden lid is back in place above,
mild air as near an oven winter gives -
and yellow leaves mottling the privet hedge,
a jaunty cast, decorative and bright,
chosen for shedding in winter thinning,
paling among those robust waxen-green.
Joe lies flat on trampoline, full of laughs -
at noises of the traffic and the birds
and untold metaphysics hid within -
coping with the fact that nevermore
he'll go to those fun places children bounce,
slide, climb and disappear within ball-pools,
being thirteen and nearly six foot tall.
The rum was in the coffee now in me.
Sun's bright, distending patch in greyest clouds,
as smudge piles up on smudge or teases loose,
reveals the racing of the eastbound mass;
but there's no hurry here, this roasting noon.
We wait the leg of lamb before we scoot,
and revel quietly in our slow time.
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...
