Siren Song In Spring

Flat scales of ice on shaded roads.

Plaintive, the wind sings; catches in the slung wires, in the spokes of the old aeriel, a natural and an alien sound.

Out of the blue, mist veils the river, blows across rooftops.

Washing is clamped to lines: see it strain to fly, the arms of shirts waving like drunks at a wake: danse macabre.

Spring pushes up in pointed buds: sallow, amethyst, velvet-white.

On the stems of wild strawberries, petalled eyes open.

Comments

Geo. said…

Thanks Lily, I love your poem and pictures --especially the old tree gnarled in mid-shrug. I have been doing clearing here, covered in "Trainrides.." and "Gardening With Geo." My compliments.

21 February 2013 at 05:09

Lisa Southard said…

I looked- I love your cart :-)

24 February 2013 at 00:00

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