What can I conjure from a grey sky-spit,
but, 'Rain-beads lodged in their metropolis
crowd bare thorn, apple bud and tongued privet:-
this washing line arrays their sopping bliss.'
(Rain cools my impatient hand this mild day,
which interrupts the winter with its blur.
Drizzle succeeds rain-spit holding sway;
the bird bath's all unfrozen and astir.)
For Love will always have something to say,
in gravelled voice when scraping back the chair;
in silence of a smile where humours play.
Raindrops fall fast, quenching an inflamed care.
When word's too furred and blotched ever to be,
plashed syllables are crowned in memory.
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...
