I heard your news. A quarrel of tits
clamp claws around the sprung twigs
of the sycamore - huffs of warm air
have cracked its buds; so pale,
these new leaves, as they stretch.
The sun plays catch-me with the clouds,
a roil of damp shadows battling
across a pitch of sky. Your news,
it grows like a lump in my chest -
I can probe it like a tongue tip
in the creeping cracks of my teeth.
Why do you break us?' creak the buds
to the wind; 'why do you rip us?'
bluster the clouds. Around the twigs
claws dig in, beaks bicker, wings flap.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
NaPo revision: Gossip
... formerly called "John". By the way, that delivery I was waiting for? Never arrived! I was so pissed off with the delivery firm - what sort of outfit sends its drivers out without mobile phones nowadays? - that I had to take my anger out on the carpets with a vacuum cleaner!