Amazing how divinely morning comedy lifts:
lurid spider's trying to web my back door over.
Hand yet on the handle, I stand arrested,
eyeing the shrugging Atlas, now hauling herself
hurriedly, yikes-vulnerable,
like a pirate with pants down,
up and sideways... (Oops! that badly slipped.)...
On far too long a rope, she jerks anxiety.
A few degrees above a frost, a touch of sun,
and what ambition stirs midwinter ribs.
I laugh and cough, and laugh at my coughing,
and cough at my laughing,
like any of a quarter billion old jossers*
greeting morning,
on this most precious blue-marble
chip-off-the-old-mythological-block.
Thank you!
I shall now pass.
The RAF have runed a cloudy sky
and Ra's eye's in the thorn.
In for work, an ego to deflate.
How many shades of watercolour mud
on the upthrust brush of trees?
Brown, yellow, purple, green -
some small hands work delightedly
that wreck of colour on a clean palette,
that does for January.
My wheezy chests lifts of itself again
for a cough-laugh when I glimpse,
high on the embankments of the way,
the mellow yellow tails of catkins at wind-play,
dangling and shaking as their dust
would cloud out now and in the gusts
make off from tree to tree
in glee pollination.
.................
*A josser is a UK slang (somewhat disparaging) term for an old man.
..
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...
