Milk-white splots and splashes,
skeins, stains of haze slide
a fresh dairy-sluice over blue,
barely dimming the sunlight;
There's a lid of it coming!
Blast-whipped-splatter's gone,
though gust-squalls lurk
at the back of a stiff breeze.
Suddenly trees are bowed aloud
and the broad hedge roars.
Sun returns in company of slanted sleet,
flashes me Morse,
through a wildly shaken yew,
highlighting fruit tree cages.
Fingers chilled
and uncomplaining
ache for, nevertheless,
an end to sitting-out.
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...
