These January dawns when cyclists strain,
middle-aged, overweight, overworked,
gasp and curse through wind-squall and rain-lash,
cede to noons of hazed rain-glaze.
Every surface, lolling sun can seal,
wet-light varnished.
Spectacular the orchard trees,
arms wide in sparking carnival,
leaf-ledges of the hedge
glittering as they ruffle
scintillant applause.
But amid this Eden...
jackdaw braggadocio of evil deeds
among our small birds
(as Tories patter-prattle of austerity -
for the rich have to get richer
so fate must tread the heads of ill and poor).
Oh, sparrow, sparrow, will you not be quieted?
You will not be quieted.
How lucky I am to sit in the silver and blue,
the indigo and white-gold,
the brightest dream-light and the darkest shadow.
The Christmas lights were cracker toys and science kits.
See what electric January can run
through hard-wired trees,
rain-laden sky-currents, and with such
potential of the myth-rekindling sun.
To realize the light is all so circle drawn
and apple trees transformed
to shallow arcs that cradle thus
(within their long Egyptian boats)
the rock-a-by quietude.
Like a rabbit 'lamped' I am rapt in the glamour
as much as ever am in any summer.
...
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-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...
