Monday, 1 December 2014

The Dead Glove

Amid the wastes of crumpled snow
The kerb is laced with dirty slush
With the lights at red the cars now slow
Commuters cross in silent hush.

It’s then I see it, lying there
Like the day - cold and forlorn
Its woollen fingers stretched out bare
Its greyish ribbing slightly torn.

Last resting place this frosty morn
Cold tarmac, unforgiving, stark
It slipped from sight though lately worn
And vanished in the velvet dark.

I contemplate its tyre-marked scar
Its death unmourned, alone at last
Has its owner travelled far?
What of its twin – is it held fast?

Blue-faced and grim, I wend my way
And discover much to my surprise
A host of lost gloves on display
A second hand shop would be wise!

(c) Poet in the woods 2014

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