Silvery flakes drift down,
glistening highlights of bright light—
born from a sugar paper moon.
Cutting through the eternal-iced sky,
as they descend to kiss
the grass and melt;
becoming tears of the soil.
Tree roots are busying themselves—
gathering the cries to feed the core…
with sorrowful, polluted stories…
And the quenched core manipulates the shape
of the leaves so they dance;
a melancholic sway and pirouette,
while the wind sings contralto—
inviting galvanised wildlife to harmonise.
Like Sylvia-Plath-figs, the leaves spread and sway;
Complimenting and contrasting in choreography.
But to the eye, their clumsiness adds detail to a water-washed night—
as if fingering and toying with the stars.
Paradoxically, amidst the midnight blues,
are hues of golden hope.
Backs on black, rich ground. Are we.
Oblivious to nature’s turmoil. In awe of her majesty.
Magically enthralled and enchanted.
Cosy in each others arms,
with jackets for pillows and cardies for sheets.
Empty wine bottles and bread crumbs scattered beneath—
An appreciative audience.
With nothing to say.
Footnotes: The above was inspired by a creative writing prompt, Sylvia Plath, ‘that time in Hyde Park’ and the burning desire to do something with my hands 🙂