Glove by Angela Hall

Glove

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.

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