Now the maple's thinning fast,
no longer bar to vision but
a palmate pattern to a white-gold sky,each back-lit leaf waves
its deep sun jonquil to the sinking Aten -sunlight aloft
on upper-storey bricks,
in brittle elder sticks,
reflections of day's last delight.A subtle edge of airy chill,
this breathe-easy breeze
I tolerate in shirtsleeves while I write.With curious, discoid antennae,
as if a teensy extra pair of wings
sprouted from diddy-head,
a minute fly
sits on the air-dried ink of 'tolerate',
signing, a thumb away,
that peace is always possible -and off the little guy goes,
straight up, a leap past hat-brim.A wind that rocks the trees descends
to ruffle hedge and test the stubborn tethers
of a few, broad apple leaves,
swaying the tall-grass stand -fawn curls, frou-frou wrapping,
so many well-presented presents stacked
I see in them a whole year gifted
at a glance.
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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...