Wednesday, 9 March 2011

The Promises Which Come With Birds

The pink little longtail tits rattle around the bare bones of the hedgerow.
Surley I'm close enough to scare them,
Take them and drag them into the depths of my pocket...
But they play.

Summer must be a commin'.

Hanging off the veranda, sun slapping my face, cradling a mug and hangover in hand.
Surely I should still be wrapped up,
Cucooned in the frame of another pair of arms shadowing me from a bleak winter's sky,
But I'm reveling the first booze-up of the season.

Summer must be a commin'.

Lazy daisies and stagnant daffodils, bloomin' lovely and wide among the frigid crocuses.
Surely it's too early,
For flowers to fly and slip out of their roots, reach for the sky,
Greeting the cars at the roadside.

Summer must be a commin'.

And even though I woke up this morning to the frightening shades of blue,
Surely they will melt away,
The droplets running through the long grass that cussions my feet,
That I fell and slept upon only a memory ago.

Summer must be a commin'







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