A tidemark of old snow,
draped along the hedge-bottom,
untrodden on the taller grass,
and in the lee of the trampoline,
a leaden slush but degrees of white
Brief gleams light the garden,
deep a bliss of bright oblivion;
but a grey lid erases
that skyscape of crevasse
where shining-wing gull glides
over a blue sear.
Sleet pummels and the squall
blatters it, stinging.
Yet scant
minutes later, after a hunched
and sullen retreat,
I'm out blinking in sky-gout of dazzle,
the glamour-glitter of the drenched hedge,
the dense sun-arcs of the soaked fruit trees.
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...
