Monday, 7 February 2011

Dancers in Landscape February 6

February 7

the bare hawthorn ghosts against the yew
like old dresses-
taken away,
leaving the stitches-
little lobs, snitches, knotted lines-
Delicate as long gone perfume
Its blurred outline crimped and lonely.
Revealed only by the greenbacked yew.

I hear a rock band of wind
a dropping, cluttering, bird of noise
the restless traffic of  air

It all sways-
cloud to tree to grass to brick
the doors flurry and smash, shocking the walls,
fly and warp like leaves
reverberate and shift
It rushes up
even in the gloom and groan
winter is usurped