The apple tree's a cage of light;
the elder's deliquesced in gold;
the last tall blades are lantern-green:
the sun's a story yet untold;
though winter's brief day keeps it terse
and we must brace ourselves to see
the bright disc riveting his verse,
to lance a blinding poetry.
Eternities a cloud can steal
and plunge us back in shivering blue,
but passing must return the daze,
the white-gold and the gold-green too.
The nettle tips have caught green flame
where little flies, lit-winged, swerve by;
dishevelled shawls of clouds slip fast
over my photochromic sky.
The apple tree's a cage of light;
the elder's deliquesced in gold;
the last tall blades are lantern-green:
the sun's a story yet untold.
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...
