The sparrows on their spikes of thorn alight,
delineations of a ruling sun
upon these sodden gardens, white-gold bright,
in pale blue skies where only contrails run.
And all the photosynthesizing greens
whose busyness is inward, to our gaze
pacific under level sunlight-streams
and corrugations of high, milky haze.
A little fly, blonde tendernesses rides.
All these complexities appear at peace.
Finger to his lips, a man abides;
a pen adorns dazed paper for release.
Blackbird sits dark in sun-glazed elder tree;
from all that gilding only he seems free.
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...
