Glove by Angela Hall


Someone had stuck it in
the hedge. Impaled on thorns
it hung all winter sodden
with rain, dried by sun
and wind, fingers frosted
palm snow-dusted — a frayed
red woollen glove slowly
haemorrhaging away–
a few stray threads veining
the moss and sticks in a nest
of pale blue glossy eggs —
among the wreaths of bright
spring leaves and sprays of white
light-powdered hawthorn flowers.

Angela Hall has published seven collections of poetry. She has lived all her life in the Kentish countryside.

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