The Thaw

A willow scribes the sky with fine black wires;
The guest long entertained prepares to go.

Roofs gasp their loads as starlings wheeze and fizz
And pigeons pick the ribs of cabbages’
Dismantled skeletons in drip-pocked snow.

The sycamores are wet-boled down the street;
Slush buckles under passing wheels and feet.

The flattened grass emerges from below
To ceaseless sibilance of rain and tyres.

Jerome Betts

If you have any comments on this poem,  Jerome Betts would be pleased to hear from you.