Monday, 16 December 2013

Scribble

Pewter sky and a sweet wind.
I should go in now, almost too dark
to see what I'm doing. But like a child
called to dinner, I want to stay out
here, just a bit longer. I walk down
the garden, the sky is a drama
of clouds and birds set off
on a stage of freshness. I pull
up an old chair and slump in it,
stare up into all this greyness.
The trees make black shapes
and it's the one behind me
that creates the best effect:
a scribble of branches,
silhouettes of berries.
The wind in this tree generates
a perfect loneliness, an antidote
to the yellow lights of houses.

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