Icicles

by Suzan Abrams


Icicles like flutes,
orchestrating concerts,
a stillborn night. Yet
applause punctures
the sullen silence,
a rushing gale screams
ovation. Or perhaps
albino bats, blind on a
branch, where witches
prey, those unvarnished
nails, ageing dames
yearn their manicures,
or dripping chocolate,
milk bar sticks and
trees for cocoa cups
where starlings
twitter up a storm.