River-walks brown and ghostly, thick seed-heads
like old nest-webs or fungal hyphae on rotting stalks
and elder playing gaunt and cracking dead,
thorn-berries dulled, mud-globbed upon black twigs,
path-leaves trodden-in mulch-squelch,
reds browned down and beaten to a paste,
sprinkled with fresh fallen -
_______________________that gold and green,
pale birches scatter as they craze dull sky.
Look across the reedy lake in tints of beige:-
reed-bed fawn-beige, green-beige of waters
grey-lid relieved by cloud-rent; but one willow-sapling
shimmering gold green.
____________________In higher woods
dead ferns retain sienna gestures till wind-lashed rains
on blowy corners beat them crumbling down.
But the birches, with their minute spades of gold -
wiry fantasias that agitate for adoration
on the windward end, exultant in their patterned dresses -
girls that jump for joy while yet they can
or dryads in the damp dusk -
_______________________fluttering with passion.
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...
