not yet light
but the first blackbird
rattles with alarm

last night’s rain
broken cherry blossom
troubles the gravel



the bare bramble hedge
clutches a coat of shadows
white frost clinging tight

three daffodils
drink at the kitchen table
deep in discussion


4.00 a.m.

wake: to the habit of thinking,
its known folds, this heavy winter
of stiff clothes, the weave
repeating under your hands;

to coverings, their disguise
rubbed thin in the wash, a near-enough fit
of cotton, worn to a thread,
not letting go, ever.


Blood oranges

Just when you thought the season was over
here they are: one stall
and one fruit sliced, a ruby,
showing its glowing heart, and all
the clouds, the threat of rain, lifts off
remembering Sicily, another market,
how the colour sings.

D.A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem,  D.A. Prince   would be pleased to hear from you.