Winter Hung An Eggy Wobble
The sun rose
an eggy wobble,
tall and high above shearling rain.
Blown clouds. Lacy. Faceless.
Hanging on a heavy mood.
It didn’t bring the foggiest trust,
just failed tests of lore,
trials by weather, this wintry
form. Those twelve men of jury –
Anointed. Appointed. Weathermen.
They tapped their twiggy sticks
into bony trees and up bushes,
hoping to pry spring’s peep but
all remained a wobbled quiet.
All remained a winter hung.