The day never seems quite ready at this time of year. 




As the year crawls

Towards December

The skies realise

Realignment is needed


The morning streets

At the edge of winter

Haze in morning suntwilight

Emerge as dew-laden trees unbend


Wispy cloud ghosts

Glacially rush to each other

Across the smooth pale blue

Of a sky not quite coloured in


They had almost forgotten

They’re not allowed to hibernate

So they gather, sheepishly

To diffuse some gold through fluffy burgeoning grey



The cold meanwhile

Has struck a deal with the sun

That if it sticks to the shadows

It can have free rein to push leaves into the grass



The city wakes up, stretches.

Pulling cars up the hill

Like the clouds it’s become slower

To react


The slow, stumbling charge of  life

In the emeraldewed grass

The slow, lilting birdsong

And the eternal spin of a sky moved on


The day reaches out slowly

Keeping its other in hand in its warm pocket

But time has slipped round the corner

And kept on running


Not out per se

But towards the moon

And day can’t find its running shoes

So retires to its cloudfluff armchair


And calls it a day



Sloth out.


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