Towards Mid-winter
Still the squirrels sally forth to raid the suspended feeders
of birds
as goldfinches are left gibbering in the hedge at those glorified
rats
with bushy tails giving equilibrium, so
chic, so chic.
The finches, charmed as they’d like you to believe, have
ready feasts
to feast on elsewhere, so what are they complaining about?
It is the blackbird who serves them if they’d care to look,
flipping fallen leaves
to reveal woodlouse scurrying for cover about bleached out roots and toadstools.
All are plumping for this cold, for this chill snapping empty branches
x-rayed bronchioles against the paper blank
clouds; for when the sun
can barely bring itself to mount the sky but still does,
creaking and groaning
as an old one, there is no time, there is no time for this
heave and moan
and brittle descent, parchment skin which needs rubbing with
oils and creams
to even remind what thirst is, dry and printless, pressed
pale against the pane.
And the goldfinches scold the wakeful squirrels and the
blackbirds raise the dead
dead leaves, waiting for something new to come.
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