Palmates, palms-out, deep resigned to time,
are gold in-filled from dazzling treasury -
leashed-in, the breeze, to trembling eagerness.
Gathered droplets, dense at four degrees,
on black apple boughs, glow white star-spheres
clouds that seem more of haze-veils,
a chalk dragged lightly in their drawing,
with no ambition to cover a dominion of blue,
sail south from wintering lands.
__________________________Darker masses,
ominously following their innocuous vanguard,
prove the early afternoon a dream-gleam;
yet I am here in the chill, a padded shirt sufficient
to the transient task I undertake,
to watch the white recession of the sun
on roof-edge bedding, a shining eyelid closing,
breeze snatch leash away, while maple leaves
though threadbare, dulled and ragged, yet hang on.
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...
