The morning sun is waltzing
with a gloaming mist this dawn,
lost somewhere
between winter and spring,
and now, and now
I see a cobweb,
golden in the breath of God,
with the blue sky and the mist
as through a revolving door,
lamplight, brass - lamplight, brass,
upon a hedge that’s steaming,
surely I must be dreaming?
This cannot be summer,
and alas no, it’s just
a January joke.
No comments:
Post a Comment