poetry diary

Released by a single coal tit
(lost in the patient scaffold
of a waiting tree) whose song
softens pale sunlight, stroking
white façades and blinking windows,
and stirring me to cross the street,
perhaps.

It’s in the edge and ebbing fall, too,
of that hedge’s shadow
on a fading snowdrop
beside a dozing fox;
her orange pelt and gently pulsing chest
creating warmth (while she lies still)
for all – her eyes half-closed,
she dreams of cubs.

I close my collar to the cold,
pull on my gloves and stamp
impatiently, which does no good;
the grass remains un-grown, un-mown,
and damp;
pavements hard, earth dark, skies still.
But then I draw a single breath;
onto my tongue it comes,
and I can taste it too.

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Posted on Poets United.