Poem

Drinking-Place

First the blackbird beaks fresh water

from the old stone-trough,

then nestles right into its bowl:

feathered black against snow-bright

humps of weeks ago flowerbeds.

Now newly washed and bedded in,

like Winter – naved in a cradle.

That said, when will we ever have

our world uncovered by snow and ice,

eyes gladdened by the track

of a safe grey pavement or ever look

upon the greenery of gardens again?

A long way off, the dawn chorus

breaking over us as showers of water