A Report to read

 
Not a breath of air, silver-blue the sky,
cloudless, waiting for the night;
busy round the bath and table
birds fight for space, feeders hanging seeds,
the crab tree heavy with its fruit
ripening late as always
assaulted by the blackbird who has not sung all week.
Lavender hedges withhold their fragrance,
but respond to friendly hands taking
sprays for lamb on Sunday.
January resting ‘neath  the snow.
ivy hugging walls and garage roof
home to shivering sparrows, undermining tiles
and a nightmare for the builder !
A rose, the tallest in the street
fifteen feet if an inch; moyesii  its name
its hips eaten as they ripen
by the pigeons who now have only crab
 
The squirrel mourns in grey, deep
in the corner thicket
 the neighbour's  cat watches out for Jack
who hates her with a will.
While I speak the clouds return
snow falling once again . . . . . .
staying in tonight in my favourite  slippers,
the gravel on the drive gripped in ice
tyre  marks and foot falls
witness ocassional shopping trips
when running out of milk.
Locked and safe, the car is on the drive
radiator checked to minus thirty six,
colder than the fridge.
A report to read, nothing else to do
a whisky at my elbow,
a bottle within my reach.