Even the raspberry canes are yellowing;
in-hedge, thorn leaves
jauntily decay.
Rain-beads pearl, where bare,
the brush of twigs.
Plastic pegs
on the green washing-line seem
(now clothes dry indoors)
surreal autumnal decorations.
The swaying line - vestigial -
yellow pegs shaking with
limp leaves in the same gust.
Tangled apple boughs
are bowed shapes of another year,
sufficient unto themselves,
overlooked by tall thorn-straggles,
bobbly with smoker's-lung
silhouettes of rotten berries.
Little birds are vocal again:-
twit, twot, cheer and chirrup,
tweeting their brief statements
on the play of things -
a little like myself.
.............
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...
