January circles and wheels above the slump.
Impatient. A pedant of sparkled irrelevance.
Butterballs, swollen like barrage balloons
unaware of their basted doom, lurk in pantries.
The sparrowhawk cares nothing for baubles.
His eyes are set on the thorn bush tangle
going nowhere until a door opens in the rain
and the lunchtime special is wiped off the board.
I can hear the sparrows sigh as one on the dub.
Although they will not venture the bird table
until the sentry pigeon has surveyed the grain,
their rattle of bones can settle into the briar.
No death in winter’s breunloch merits sweet
notes of summer reflections in rippled chaos.
Countless generations have sat out storms.
Slumbering. Sleepwalking through Christmas.
Tiny sparks of life catch in the whisky smile
of a face shining, though less the countenance
of harried survivors, remaining content to stand
in the defence of dreams yet to be imagined.
There, to settle down with a book of poems, beneath
the unhurried supplication of moss bound tiles
and hide there until the fear of bottomless pits
passes with the storm clouds, promises intact.