I have been fond of grey since finding Whistler's <br /> Mother, grey with a modest black and white ... <br /> a chastity in Quaker terms. Winds <br /> that freak the blossom over greening slabs <br /> translate the line of paving to this house <br /> into a grey of churchyards, into fading <br /> spectacles after winter weddings. <br /> <br /> No matter how you look at it, such <br /> commemoration of a festive instant <br /> has to go. Sweeping makes the cleaner <br /> job of it, though low on speed. Not <br /> to sweep encourages a heap of gibes <br /> from paper-boy and passer-by, a fling <br /> of views. It would seem impractical <br /> not to be affected by externals. <br /> Flings can be habit forming, frequent <br /> as untimely shocks of blossom falling. <br /> Left to lie they, too, will tend to stick.<br /><br />Amy Hollins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/broom-in-hand/
