This paragon, a late November day,
sits with the freshet-pinks of spring prinked-out
or with an August lolling in dune play
while martins over marram wheel about.
The brave fly now who busies in late year,
with afternoons of paddling wings compare:
dignitaries gathered on buddleia
when emperors and admirals dine there.
Bright crevasses lying behind leaf-rags,
the same ceremonial table attend
which tall Ra, sauntering down mirrored crags,
clothes gold, spread from the stilled lake's western end.
Blossom-shocks, Elysium meadow flowers,
recall when winds blow raw and dark cloud glowers.
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...
