What is the dawn making
of old contrails?
A cold, factitious artistry
of palette knife and brush:
those bold statements of lines,
fill-in gauzes,
that featured coif-swirl
all canted at the same
(small yet deranged) angle
behind frozen grazing -
shocked-white fields edged by
alveoli-fractal
oak silhouettes.
Returning from the half day
in a platinum-blonde afternoon
squinting visored,
riding sheet-metalled light,
the clear sky gathers dabs, a dapple
a high stipple of soft cloud
(unable to pull the wool entirely over blue)
under which slides a strange
curving veil, brown-tinged,
(I'd swear has a smoky tang).
The gold of evening lingers, candled
in bramble leaves tangled in the thorn,
and winks from upper storey windows.
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...
