By Mike Smith
Winter has arrived. I’ve found starved robins on the path, as pale as old barolo. Hard frost has told the trees, time to let go. Leaves fall like dead birds from the sycamores. Dew-drips drop from spider threads. We’re draped with mist, like garden chairs out of their season. From each bud’s tip as it begins to freeze, leaf edge and pine needle, pearled globules squeeze. I motionless, while winter breathes me in and settling air around my shoulders slips.
Mike Smith lives on the edge of England where he writes occasional plays, poetry, and essays, usually on the short story form in which he writes as Brindley Hallam Dennis. His writing has been published and performed. He blogs at www.Bhdandme.wordpress.com . This poem was part of the Crichton Writers’ (Dumfries) anthology (2007).
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