Sallow times

Sallow times

It’s hard to see when the light
is flat, un-shadowed, no relief.

Hard to dream when there is no mystery,
no half-suspected tunnel in the hedge,
no leaf, twisting golden, then gone,
bright eyes that blink in a stray beam,
before the black returns.

When the light is dull as a puddled road,
a hollow in the asphalt,
reflecting the backsides of low clouds,
their faces to the unseen sun,

all birds are black,
all wings beat slow, heavy,
pinions dripping,
with the leaden weight of winter.