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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