Moult
Sunday 26 September 2021
poetry
Moult
When winter’s chill begins to wane,
the feathered cloak starts to fray,
each plume lets go in silent rain,
a quiet shedding, day by day.
In burrows deep the rabbit sighs,
its winter coat comes loose in threads,
soft down like snow upon the eyes,
until the new growth softly spreads.
Even the serpent, slick and sleek,
unhooks its old scales with a sigh,
the emerald gleam beneath the cheek
renewed, as seasons onward fly.
