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

  1. 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.

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