By Rachel Carney
Twigs return to childhood, tussling and bickering in the early morning sun.
A woodpigeon hides away all day in the topmost branches.
The sky swoops down, a sullen swell of grey.
This yawn of green waits for time to pass.
A blackbird serenades the empty street for hours.
The green fills out, brighter, fresher than before.
I watch as sky turns pink, green fades to grey, then black.
Rachel Carney has had poems, articles and reviews published in various magazines and journals. She is a PhD student researching the use of creative writing in art museums. www.createdtoread.com @createdtoread
I was recovering from a virus during lockdown, and spent a lot of time on my sofa, looking out of the window. I began to pay attention to small things: clouds, birds, or the colour of the sky. The days of the week somehow lost their significance, so I felt the need to add them into my poem, to provide a sense of structure and stability, to remind myself that, over time, things do change, life does get better.