Ah, and it's not far into the new year,
all too familiar the scrub, the brush, the wire,
the induviae, stubborn in their niches,
all against a white-grey sky, smooth
as the wall of an egg - the gestures:
the green men, nightmare-masqued;
the drama cadres, the fey painterly,
the knights in ivy armour never reaching
catatonia but approximating it as
eyes are riven back to driving routines,
the blower bakes and is turned down
with the news, always depressing.
Yes, and all the hues, too, of the sticks,
from brown to red, their fan and spread,
the tangled thorn hedges a prince might
take on to reach a castle of deep sleep.
And then I worry at my emptiness.
no introjection / projection, whimsy
floating inflating, no bright, elusive flight
from these field-guards, these leaning rakes
and shock hairstyles, Tiggywinkle-wild
that trail on by to dark-hollow dusk.
But, oh, the husky heart starts here -
and how truly to start, but from nothing?
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
