Last time this month I hit the road
to Stoke. “Hop it, little magpie!”
To think, not long ago, trouble
was how to dress out January
other than in mummy-windings,
though it is true her skies often
closed in – coffin, sarcophagus,
sealed tomb. “Scat, little bird,
trailing your tail on the road!”
Superficial though it is to divide
a season into months – yet we’ve
come a ways through winter
(deeper into her, perhaps) and
February usually a special brew.
“Away, your long pied feathers
from my tyres now!”
What I have to let go
is the delusion I ever really
knew you - the end so weird,
wrappings so bizarre. Discard,
discard all that craziness.
Keep filling bins, putting them out.
“And, you, little bird. Aroint!
You started it all two springs ago
with your shameful stubbornness,
sitting on the road like that.”
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...
