Day by day, warm, southwest trades speed grey;
and now, below, winds roughen - gust and sway.
Dews fall heavy and intermittent rains
soak deep, preserving all the green they may;
but too late now for ailing bindweed chains
and pinnacles - and berry-spread the ground,
strewn with plump red apples or rotting, browned.
Self-sown, in a mossed pot, one flower remains.
Eight-petaled delicacies over-topping
jag-leaved, plebeian make-do-and-mend,
rayed arrays with buds to come, not stopping
while blooms might see the day before year's end.
Might tiny flies attend bright targets yet
should calm prevail between rough winds and wet?
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...
