Rashers of raw cloud Southwest,
behind (frankly) tatty, speckled
camouflage nets of planes.
On examination these trees are filled
with invisible children, only apparent
by their tan leather gloves, waving wildly
as they jump up and down on tip-toe.
Ian Dury is singing
"(Part) one, two, three."
Skies cloud; they clear; and cloud again.
If all is clear Venus and Jupiter
will dance westering farewells
and a Blue Fairy may come to jumping Jiminy.
Night can't decide. Stars. Yes? or No?
Jack Frost is drinking in The Plough.
........
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
