Showing posts from January, 2015

After the Storms

Gold and silver fingers reach Pleadingly toward the sky From ivy-tangled soaken sleeves, Trunks wheeze and wail With shuddering breaths for their Splintered and fallen Sisters and brothers Broken, cut, drowned and rotting Where the sun scarcely dares To warm the edges Of dark puddles in the carpet As sheep gather, stranded In the middle of a new island In a cloudy cluster standing Above burst river-banks While the two o'clock January sun Shines like September in The hour before dusk, lying low And seeming through glass Still to be warm, yet warning Of a chill that is to come, It reflects off leafless limbs And bleaches matted patches Of cut grass at edges of fields and Dripping motorway ditches in the Midlands While the West dreams of dry days And sweeps driftwood and dirty deposits After a nightmare of high tides and howling winds.