Let me fold myself back in
down unliveried corridors
of robing dusk
until I am a small boy
playing in a cardboard box -
to peep out of the warm
brown gloom
smelling of parcel tape.
The roads
though they close in dark
have wild stars dusting down -
and far-lorries proclaim
juddering deep
gear-shifting ways.
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...
