For a tougher picture of January see my lyric, 'January' in 'Months,' a series of poems on the months of the year, here - scroll down the post to find January.
Eighty-thirty on a January morn.My garden sycamore flings fingers high,
Greyly-green and lichen-dusted,
To wrap them in the flushed fresh sheets of dawn.
Dews of sunrise distilled the kohl-blue sky,And creeping bars of sunlight orange-rusted
Walls and flaring window panes;
Cloudy as lemon squash, mist trickled by.
Atop the tree by morning breezes gusted,A red-beard robin, fiery in his reins,
Wildly yells breast-swollen brags,
Hen-wooing and by skirmish-scars encrusted.
Beneath, stiff-legged starlings like toys on canesBlackly chatter, clapping their wings like flags;
Bagatelling branch to branch
They tumble like a flail of glossy grains.
On lower branches, two old spinsters’ workbags –Mild pigeons, greyly-powdered – glared askance;
Primly-pained by the stares’ brawling
They lift their ruffs, wind-caught and fluffed to rags.
A squirrel leapt and made those starlings dance;Club-tailed, Achilles-racing, climbing, crawling,
Savagely it swung its claws –
The starlings fled; it gave a victor’s prance.
Come leaf-time, quarrelling will earnest; bawling,Breeding, caparisoned, pursuing wars,
Training fledglings with the tawse,
Bird, beast and man must shoulder the year’s hauling.
====================© January 2014