The birds are inkblots on a grid of trees.
Their branches weave starless constellations.
I tire of the wind’s drawl and the hunger
of the clouds that drips like candle wax.
Lost in this grey twilight
that longs to be called ‘silver’ –
but I see no shine, no shimmer.
Even the magpies shun it.
Content with the sapphire gleam
beneath their wings.
The world is angled in black and white.
I long for the soft curves of spring
and all its shapely colours,
blooming like a fist unclenched.
Winter does not blush. It is not ashamed
of its colourless complexion
or its dark round freckles.
This is not white like the arch
of a swan’s neck.
No. This is the tired, withered white
of carnations rotting at the foot of a grave.
Crows sman, pinned on the pale sky
like pointed black kites.
They are jealous of the owls,
tawny-eyed angels who brave the snow.