Predawn shudders anxiously out of sleep.
A snow plough screeches past the window,
blue lights flashing on the bedroom wall.
Midnight labour turns to madness.
These nights keep strangling to a solstice death.
Each morning rises low and pale,
dim treasures glittering on the frosted pane
as sun works out a nimbus path
along the sidewalk drenched in linen like a tousled bed.
The last green leaves of buckthorn fall
desiccated by wind and darkness.
Buried fronds, recoiling in the dark,
remember longer days
and winds warm with delight,
the roots all weeping with summer growth.
Dec. 16, 2002
All written material and images are ©1995-2002 Van Waffle. This page updated Dec. 16, 2002.
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