simonhlilly

BLACKTHORN DAYS

The blackthorn, still holding back its own fragile snows.
Hollow, its sighing breath at the field’s edge.

This thin air, too, is tangled, thorned:
Ice feathers falling sparse from fast skies.

Survival is uncertain, measured with stuttered petals,
In shades and tides of green.
All blood reddens though, thickens, runs faster
Now that light nibbles at night’s edge.

The sky, still pale, vacant, translucent,
A distance of time holding space.

But see the sallow: through it all
A strengthening sun, shining gold.

And bright the gorse, a warm hearth
And welcome to the eye
As pale year sways
Between days of gold and grey.

Bullfinch and primrose both up before matins,
Praising breath and life, regardless of frost.

Thirteen days, new moon, mapped,
A sky tumble of raucous falling crows.