Behind the Glass
There is a thrush on the lawn
and a ladybird on the other side
of the window. This is that calm;
the clouds look liquid, there are crows high up
mixed like dust-bits in a drink, but down here
the fingers of the reaching conifer
are for once still, and the thrush is hopping around.
How fast the clouds move. How quickly they change;
they darken and lighten, then night.
The round edge of a molehill frames my footprint.
Some of the grass is yellow from summer, somehow.
The moon has been coming out before dark lately
and it looked out of its depth in the blue of yesterday.
It isn’t here now, of course, just the slopping clouds
and the bobbing thrush, the still air down here, the ladybird
and the resting conifer, usually hysterical, now calm
below jolted crows, struggling to evacuate the sky.
And there’s me too, behind the glass.
Samuel W. James is a new writer from Yorkshire, and his poems have been accepted by Allegro, London Grip, Peeking Cat, Clockwise Cat, Elsewhere Journal, Adelaide Magazine and Ink, Sweat and Tears.