November 18

What light there is not quite enough

Trees spread their boughs

Further, wider, darker

Leafless forms leave the eye prey

To sleight of those bony hands

And to imagined shifting serpentine roots

From where subterranean shapes emerge

While night’s curtain to silence falls

Leaving the owl to hunt at will

The little creatures that dare scurry

Across loose-laid woodland litter

And here the only noise

The kitchen clock


CLP 18/11/2019