The fresh-washed air, the beaded leaves
deep twig adornments, cloud-light pearled,
more tangible than strange dream-weaves
about a vacant, waking world.
And yet pervasive wistfulness
insistent comedies of birds can't quell.
Though sky puts on an ashen dress
forgetfulness rings a sweet bell.
Weak sun attempts, diffuse through cloud,
soft-lighting on the sodden day.
Though garden's dull and traffic's loud
yet something leads my mind astray.
Sometimes the correlates are strong -
but then projector's packed away;
there is no screen to cast upon
to instantiate the play.
In vain to look for scratty leaves,
for tangled twigs and skies of grey,
for lemon suns, for lost rain-beads:
they're not the makings of our say.
Yet why then is it here
among the cold untidiness,
in winter's framing, mean, austere
I sense this drifting lightness?
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...
