Green is the park and brown is the wood fence

About us, encircling us, this cold

Morning. She stands, hands on her hips,

Boots on the firm frosted grass and watching

These wonders of invention: neatly clipped plots

Of lamb’s ear, gently tailored evergreens

And at the fence sides crawling insects;

It is their season. Her season is ire,

Peppered and chilled like factory snowflakes.

It’s not been but three weeks and still she snorts,

Clenches her fist and jaw and swings her weight

Mysteriously. I’m sorry, I say.

Winter came here of its own sullen self.

Advertisement