Jean Bleakney

Winter Triplets

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?