I lie in the lounge on my afternoon bed.
A million frayed nerve ends arc over my head.
The light in the sky is a bright steely grey:
The mottled effect of a blustery day.
The trees silhouette. Every branch, limb and twig
Thrusts in lignin defiance. They don’t give a fig
For a day that will chill and deface and impede.
They don’t have our pain, or our feelings, or need.
Much closer, the tits on the bird table feast.
They will harvest the last of the peanuts at least,
Before winter makes life that little bit harder,
And freezes their assets, and shuts down their larder.
I lie on the couch, sunlight crossing the page,
As I wait for the nerve ends to spell out their rage.
If birds had neuralgia, they’d fall from the sky.
No trips to the doctor. They’d plummet and die.
The sun has spun round and is now on my face.
The birds make the most of its warming embrace.
And I take it too. I won’t lower the blind,
But allow it to soothe and to lighten my mind.
© Ruth Twyman Lockyer December 2011