Road is a bitter
Freeze grey bayonet blade;
Crushed cold shale and flint link
Between the zero mercury and
The never-closer tomorrow-season.
Wind is a silent, ceaseless chainsaw, a
Horizontal cat o’ nine tails
Flailing straight through warm tissue
Into bone and blood,
Slowing life’s reactions, pleasures.
Sunrise is the thin, unfriendly
Diamond sharp, heavy-duty edge
Of a cold sett chisel,
Battering through fragile,
Pale blue sky-skin:
Spring’s feeble eggshell armour.
Today feels harsh,
The beginnings of extinction,
Or tedious, bleak totalitarian industry;
Like the worst of sad war’s
When the last of the living
Have limped away.
But then the songthrush sings …
photo source: www.spring-fling.co.uk