thinking of better days….
A strong slow gliding of white cloud eastwards,
the sky in the zenith amethyst, but then look
stratus slide across at right angles on high levels;
the blue shows through thin worn floc-white.
The cloud in the blue amethyst I keep for later.
Coffee on the hob, aromatic, the still morning
hanging spice; birds build roosts of noise
to nest in; the blue hole deepens to indigo.
Skeletal beech trees, a rose bush breaks bud.
Bushes of evergreen in disturbed air, a cup full
of agitations; starlings follow their sounds around,
sparrows chuch, a thrush tunes its clacking wheel,
knocking, solid, dull. Clots of cloud in the west
turn peachy, discolour.
A chill just beginning, a high somewhere
zipping open, not settling into any garment.
What’s left of April — everywhere dew-wet,
and another dampness damping down staleness,
slinking to gaps between soil grains malts the mash
of simmering rot.
michael9murray 