Diana Rosser

It is bewitching this wild winter sky
that swirls livid coils past the window pane.
Rolling, twisting billows of grey that cry
to merge, blend, before spiralling again;
unfolding, captured in a rigid frame.
The base slices fractal branches of three
ancient oaks that charcoal across the grain.
But the sky tumultuous tumbling free
pulls on walking boots, jumpers, grabs the key;
sweeps me buffeted beyond the fence
swept wayward towards the familiar trees
swaying beneath rootless magnificence.
There blown high amidst the gathering storm
the pointless miseries of life are torn.