Stark menorah branches pointing
towards a dull wash sky,
Rust edged greenery clinging.
High up a solitary leaf,
dying, holds fast.
A magpie hovers and disappears.
November chills, damped down
lumpen grass.
Leaden air void of birdsong:
no rising of the morning glory,
no sun to warm, to cheer.
Then... I gorge upon a cluster
of pink, spreading lazily across
a wall.
Defiance in every bloom,
lifting winter's gloom,
no longer black or grey.
Roberta Mclennan