A sorry lot, the nettles have frostbite,
and withered on the stems those blackened leaves;
grey-melt sky, lawn tricked-out in silver beads;
the bird-bath holds a solid lump of ice.
All night I trembled at delirium's door,
Nod-drop-off all banging, knocking noises,
strange rituals of shade-thought, odd voices -
perhaps all simply illness, yet unsure.
In later morning sleep came sweeter drawn,
for fiercest rigmarole a gentler game;
tentative tapping on the window pane
prompted me to witness the white frost gone.
And now deep orange through this dour-down brights
the Southwest; and Northeast a rainbow lights.
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...
