Winter morning on Iona street and silver
daylight hanging like an old Christmas
ornament in the bare maple tree out
in the front yard, there's no expression
on its flat round face at all. . .
There’s a magpie chattering of kinder
off to school, stepping blithely over the
purple shadows without a care in the world,
a slow hum of speckled starlings lined up
like bobbins on the telephone wires above.
Tea in hand, I am watching the trees move,
shadows shift and flow and change their shapes,
how the light falls across the hawthorn tree,
the owl vigilant in her hidden perch of spruce —
she thinks I cannot see her there.
Never a stillness in the village street, for
these darkling days have their own fine music.
Written for the bright spirits at Poetry Thursday