Free French Class, First of February

I sit and stare at the sky,
And the things in it,
And the things that stand so sharply out against it.
Bare branches, black against the bare white canvass of clouds,
Reach out in every direction from a tree.
They reach out, but they never catch hold
Of anything but the cold brick wall.
There are no birds on the bare tree, just as
There is no blue in the cloud-blanketed sky.
All is dirty white or dull grey,
And the skeletal black branches.
Brightness, too bright to bear, shines out from
Behind the basketball hoop
That we may never, ever use.
The sun’s rays leave a silver glow on charcoal-coloured
Tiles, silver rays that sting my eyes
And make the black bent branches even blacker by contrast.
Dusty grey sand covers our “proud” pitch,
The pitch whose grass was so pristine just
Last spring that we could not even step upon it.
The grass by the window is still thick and green,
But lies in the shadow of the cold brick wall
And is useless to us.
More shadows stalk across the black tar macadam
Of the court that we have no permission to use,
As the sun struggles to break through just once before setting.
The wind picks up,
Blowing the nets behind the empty goals
Like sails on an abandoned ship bound to nowhere.
Still I sit and stare at the sky.
Yesterday morning it was a spectrum of delight,
As though a fire of flowers burned on the horizon.
Monday morning it was perfectly clear, clear and bright blue.
Maybe tomorrow it will be blue again.
Will I even remember to look at the sky again
Tomorrow, or will I just do my homework instead?
Is there any real reason to stare at the sky?
And what if I were to never stop looking up…?


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