Poems

Louis Groarke: ‘Oak Leaves at Christmas Time’

Oak Leaves at Christmas Time Puis çà, puis là, comme le vent varie, A son plaisir sans cesser nous charrie, (The wind, gleefully, pushing us, changing its mind Forwards and backwards, all of the time.) —François Villon, “La Ballade des pendus” (The Ballad of the Hanged Men) Oak leaves are the last to go They hang from branches in the snow. In tempest tossed, they feckless swing And flap forlorn like dead bird-wings. Like Villon’s dead men in a row These lifeless leaves blow to-and-fro; To icy twigs they hopeless cling, Their fingers frozen as they swing. Hung out to…

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