Empty heads, and lost-their-heads,
are my dandelions today, guillotined
by a cold wind cannot remember summer,
stirring remnant leaves,
sublimed across a glyph-glare
cannot warm;
and yet some sun-blonde wings will try a flight:
brightness brings them, and the spider sheen
stranded over raspberry leaves.
Small clouds scanned across the sun-disc,
white gold deeps down, lights
all stained hangers-on.
I dreamed my mother told me of a thing
I'd dreamed I'd told her,
woke to the self-trickery.
A magpie lurching on the yew's
wind-animation,
lifts a tail to balance
on that shaggy agitator's shoulder.
Hard rasp of warning-chatter
dizzying-darks the garden;
breeze blows raw my hand,
clamped hard on page,
as if to nail a treatise to a table.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
