I slept through rain that fell, autumnal warm,
to the still garden under hurrying skies,
to soak so deep into this algae-greened,
weathered table, beading bare trees with
soft illuminations, under a cloud-white eye -
the grass pearl-strewn, untidy, a spilled
treasure-hold.
___________The little fly who hastens
over paper, purposively, hitches up her
long Elizabethan dress of wings; the big
black fly's too plum fussy to settle fuzzed feet
in the wet.
_________Less so myself, a forearm damp
through shirt with casual leaning on said
table-edge.
Yet, I imagine the rain falling a catharsis
of this moody sky, whose darker smokes
have ashened aftermaths, as pale I woke
from vexed dreams of vented resentments,
tempered at the end by soothing scenes:-
my children, parents, poetry, music; so...
that quiet xylophones sweetly within me.
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...
