Sunday 20 February 2011

Cold War







To Dawn



The resolute grey of an English Sunday.
There's very little to warble about.
Nature is shrivelled, the sky grey.
Like subdued pensioners, the plants don't shout.
Frozen buds, a half-hearted forsythia
merely announce their intention to bloom.
There's a cataract across the sky
we look out, hopefully, from dark rooms.
The sun is an unreliable fiance
dead leaves lie still on the ragged lawn
like a failed suitor, it seeks our pardon.
And the poor chiff-chaff, why did it come this way
to deliver its happy, liquid song?
It chirps forlornly in an English garden

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