A grey veiled morning humour
hangs about this New Year’s Day,
an unrehearsed pantomime
we walk through,
clipped wet hedgerows,
red berries all broke,
squashed, scattered,
lost amongst the uncut verge,
the dogshit and the broken glass,
three children scat down muddy slopes,
soddened wild clematis beards
droop across our footpath
offering spit washes to us bleary revellers
as we stumble home,
in last night’s clothes.
*
© Graham Sherwood 01/2008 and 01/2020
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 