"Just don't expect too much," the cold winds say.
"You're lucky it's not icy in our grip
You're fortunate no rain falls from the grey.
But did we say it wouldn't? Not this trip.
So sit here dry or drizzled while the gulls
on high broad wings suburban surveys go -
peregrine lancing down for sudden culls -
and watch the remnant nettles trembling low.
For winter is that sour and tedious time
to realize the narrows squeezing in:
sit still, now, and endure the bitter rhyme
paucity makes withal you're sparse within.
As one line gleans, where little's left to find,
the other tucks in close, shuffling behind."
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...
