Tree-bones float on dishwater sky,
grey mist seeps from the river.
Under my window the garden’s still:
where are the parakeets and why
is the blackbird silent? I fear that
single magpie, sprawled talons
awkward on my windowsill,
brings news of God-knows-what undoing.
Shall I once again smell lilac:
walking from Kingston on this
Springtime road bend branches down
to my delighted face? Duvet-trapped
above my Winter-withered plot,
bare birdless trees, I cough away the hours
and tremble at the long cold Winter
I must now live through.