A bridge of sighs links me to what is past;
all other bridges long ago I burned;
and now sighs come into their own at last,
ghosts of memories faithfully returned.
The torture of their dying falls away,
for trauma and for rage a deadened zone;
even the folly and the waste today
but parcels of a story too well known.
A winter tale within which midges dance,
their January surprise to be alive;
and urgent in their courtship remonstrance,
numerous their column, pair to thrive.
Ah, though I lost your company, back then,
it seems that now I'm wedded to my pen.
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...
