Out in breath-sleeved,
breath-scarved night,
waving arms for the security light,
garden table richly frost-starred -
the glintered plane a hologram-space,
bins likewise,
bedevilment for eyes.
Jupiter hanging blue over near,
Orion's belt clear
In this sediment of the year -
a hollow holiday, they say,
when colds have sway,
Christmas day toll taken.
Yet stand and freeze, a little,
writing illegibly in undisturbed dark,
quieted and pleased
that starry night-frieze
hasn't changed a jot
since lying near Borth beach,
Ynyslas frosted sand,
(a spoonful of mushroom honey)
seventy nine, oh, thirty five long
years ago - but go,
lie back flat,
watching threads that bind
point beyond that pale dune horizon.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoesíaIvy-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...
