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January |
January. A pale impassive sky is arched Over the empty wolds; no seam, no break No variation in its shade to make Its dour appearance seem less dull, less starched. But even so it isn't all that clean: A hint of greyness tinges everything, As though the sky has not washed itself in Weeks. Why bother? The earth is hardly green. And when we come to look around, its true: This furrowed field is hardly in its best Attire. Quite casual. As for the rest, Though striped, their soiled suits a long way from new. The land, it feels, has seen some better days. It's rude to stare. Walk on. Avert your gaze. ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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