Busy

I love clean crisp days, when breath
hangs in sharp promise of new life.
Secrets sweet, of sap, bulb and bud
lie dormouse dormant, dozing.
I walk un-withered with him, alone.
His eyes dart to branch, to tree, to sky,
to ask me 'Why'. I promise
to explain a world he cannot gain
by insight or inference alone.
Spoken crunch of broken, frozen
twisted twig and treacherous limb
cracks peppercorn scattergun sound;
Ebony crows rise as upward spiralling
shroud. A blackened tattered, rat gnawed
veil of wings ascend through mist;
to cry raucous spite at two souls denied.

Too engrossed in our dream, to come away.

2004
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edit 29.07.10