Oh?
So much for forecast snow!
This mild, sopping day,
rain-beaded in utter stillness,
hardly stirs a straw-wisp;
nettles aloof in soaked contemplation
neglect to nod.
Through the damp air,
age-old sounds of a schoolyard
out at lunch-time play
tell me the hour is always now,
breaking easily from the backwash
of traffic waves.
At their peak, belabouring swash
rolled roaring along wet tarmac
only the top notes of most passionate yells
carry, like raucous keening of far gulls.
Yet the rush-hour's over,
children packed in rows away.
Robin hops on apple twigs
flitting to feed as I write, now;
but, whenever I look up,
he scoots back to bough -
and from his cue
the small birds scold me being here:
"Ha-ha!
If you bugger off
we'll have a feast!"
Yet they can wait:
"Follow the redcoat then.
Go hunt a worm
on such a blessed
bead-shake day.
Leave be.
I'll sip my coffee,
passing the slow interval
from bell
to bell."
It's up to them, of course it is,
how cheeky-tame they want to be;
and whoever forecasts snow be taught
the weather's' every bit as free.
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...
