Rain-black slate and trees wet with moss.
Bricks damp and bone-cold against
The gun-metal sky.
A sun drenched in rolls of moisture,
Buds green and cling intrepid
On osseous bushes.
The air blisters the branches,
A sculptor's charged intent,
Crafting meaning's echo
From the suppleness of the ground.
Birch leaves like droplets slouch
In the glottal cough of the wind.
Light with heat does pirouettes,
Electric tip-toes on the Thames.
Spring's adolescent sun comes
With its fingers clenched like atoms,
A soundless implosion of warmth,
Like a woman, on the river's curve.