January
© Ian Mole
This poem is about how it felt in my street in Notting Hill one winter.
Bleak trees appeal to an empty sky
as the city is haunted by winter.
Skulking strangers crunch their arctic tracks
across the treachery of the street.
With frozen grins they threaten to speak
but then bow beneath the icy lash
and fumble for the amber womb of home.
Click to rate this poem!
[Total: 25 Average: 3.4]
Advertisements