Friday, January 12, 2007

January morning, prevailing wind

Wet winter wind
Bothers and badgers us,
Coming through knotted, off-black chestnut twigs
Musty dark ivy, round stone pennywort,
Slaps at slate and glass and granite,
Pushes water through cracks we didn't know were there,
Picks at and peels the varnish, soaking the wood
And drawing out the awkward crusty resin crystals,
Lays a lime green film of algae
And makes the morning birds lie low,
Except the young cockerel over the way
Who yells and heckles for his short-lived day.

1 comment:

Plutarch said...

On a third reading, I find this a very succesful account of weather. mood and place.