Writings and Witterings


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Four am,
Dark winter night,
Light on,
Open door,
Test weather.
Mild chill,
In January,
At four in the morning,
A turn on the terrace.
Breeze on cheek,
Leaves flick,
Click, click, flick,
Tumbling, fumbling,
Stumbling around,
They meet
On a horsehair mat,
To be gathered,
And scentily burned,
On a bonfire
In the field.
Four am,
Dark still,
But lightening.
Mild chill
Breeze turns to wind,
Shuffles, scuffles through oaks,
Then drops,
Falling deeper
Through a silhouette
Of naked branches,
Stark now against a lightening sky,
Falling to a bird table
That will cater to,
Coal Tits and Greenfinches
Robins and The Squirrel.

Polly Robinson © 2012


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