The Moss At Wimbledon Station

A Poem by Christian Ward

Spinach-snow if we’re aiming
for precision. A flattened wig
of it on the roof’s corrugated
scalp. It might outlast the cold
bringing everyone’s bones
to the surface. Summer, though,
may force a surrender, make
the stragglers slip into cracks.
Stop by then to watch the birds
fatten themselves on its bitter prayers.