Tuesday, 31 December 2013

Last day of the year

Last day of the year
  and old man’s beard
    smothers the hedgerow
like the fresh fall of snow
  we haven’t had

this winter. No flowers but the
  red tips of hips and haws
    perched in between
the palest green
  lichen creeping along blackthorn.

The damp creeps too,
  up from the earth
    to meet grey sky descending
like a bird’s song across the long
  wet end of the year.

Heavy the days at this slow time,
  ponderous the rhyme
    of bells which mark the turning
point; the pendulum swing,
  the ring of something new.

Poised as we are, between now
  and then, what can we know,
    but that we are cradled,
kept; the ground true,
  the green shoot poking through.

31st December 2011


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