Awry by Mike Ferguson

Clouds are drifting slowly eastwards,
but the snapshots of blue are briefer than before.

An owl screams from a branch under the moon,
but there is no echo across fields.

Rain lashes all night in this winter storm,
but damage is more of the same.

Bordering bushes drop falling leaves,
but birds have nowhere to fly for certainties.

Waves break along the seaside’s shore,
but pebbles are not dragged back in its ebb.

Pruned shrubs are stripped, and their sticks in piles,
but there’s no urge to weave the rustic fencing.

The sun shines on this table of Sunday papers,
but what we read makes no sense any more.