Stripped or gone to seed. By Hallowe’en
the garden’s falling back on its laurels;
its hollies, ivies and all its evergreens.
Neat, how every now and then
metaphors declare themselves:
you’re a robin; I’m a wren.
Propped up in bed half listening for the post
half in a dozy dwam. Poems hover … but
my ballpoint pen keeps giving up the ghost.
Blizzard over. The chittering downspout
sounds relief and loss. And, as an afterthought:
‘So what was that all about?’
February. Spring sets out its stall:
camellia pinks; ballooning crocuses;
and ivy, spilling hearts across a yard wall.
Real matey, of late, this blackbird and thrush.
Putting two and two (as usual)
I’m thinking … Black Thrush? T-Bird? Blush?