Today begins pigeon grey

but featherless-still, with bone-ache chill

clinging to the skeletal fingers of scrawny trees

and it looks fit to linger through the day –

and not even the desperate endeavours

and frantic flutterings of the small brave bands

of winged wellbeing messengers

whipping periodically through the bare branches

can raise bleak outlook on this dark,

dirty, nothing sort of day –

and deep within the centre of my hibernating husk

I crave and cry for a slip or sliver of sunlight – just one.