Copse

(I vividly recall seeing this ghastly coloured sky being clawed at by a small clutch of trees. Like children grabbing at sweets).

So many thoughtless dilute brushstrokes
smear the milky, feverish sky today,
and jaundiced clouds torn right down,
dragged low by clenched oak knuckles,
stark and skeletal
in stagnant green and putrid brown.
Oddly threadbare beeches
having felt the razor edge
of November’s slavering blade,
now stand inert
as nature’s forlorn mannequins.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2009