Holly

~

like the smooth easy words of a 

scurrilous lover, the promise

of this morning’s pale pinks 

and blues have come to nought

leaving the sky dull, bland and

unsatisfyingly monochrome,

~

the chill is at low single figures

pinched by a keen breeze,

so, I don a heavier coat and

more sensible shoes to search

for a holly bush with berries,

~

close to the railway line it is

seldom trod being uneven and

untended but here, there are sloe

bushes that have already filled

the gin flagons with plump fruit,

and high up, out of reach, mistletoe 

hangs like tantalizing damp pearls,

~

having pocketed my lucky 

pebble I have high hopes and

sure enough, there is holly too,

tangled boughs of the soapy

dark green leaves bristle at my

approach, their custard-tipped

spears alert to strike my eager

fingers; but precious few berries

adorn the shiny sprigs,

~

after tea, with wreaths bound

as if to commiserate for the lack

of berries, a crimson dusk ‘bloods’

the horizon, and the scurrilous lover

dares to show his face once more

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/24