Fourteen degrees - a deep blue sky -
an agitation of the birds...
I'm standing by tall, raspberry leaves,
that grow between the apple boughs,
to give you all the same again,
the latest on the curl of leaf,
how ashy undersides rolled up
present a deeper ghostliness,
as rosy rot, beneath my feet,
decays sienna, ebbs to black
about the dark boles of these trees.
Oh. What was that across the backs,
pumping hard with curve of wing?
Olympic freestyle of the air -
'Adrenaline!'the heart shouts out,
swiftly ascending peregrine
sleight of twist-turn - gone from view.
It's a perfect day for flying, sure,
sun lights silver fuselage
of high jet bound for Manchester,
but here below about the shoals
of trees a winter visibility
makes hiding hard or holding nerve -
and so a burst of birds results:
a magpie straight upon its way,
a sun delineated tail
wide spread, but then a blur
of rattled pigeons, strimming twigs,
gone for perches gardens down -
the whole thing is a guessing game.
Two ravens playing overhead
express their love in helices
and swerves so timed, and tumbling
like serrated leaves for fun -
and then! Where did it come from?
I see it pull sky under it
and dive, around the far churchyard.
Follows then that best-guess time
we all change sectors silently
(us peregrine panicked pigeons)
some crossing rooftops past ridge tiles
and some along the line of trees
and one as maybe tempting fate
flies high to peek at where it went.
But no. That's not my game at all;
so in I go to type it up
and sip from tepid coffee cup.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PuisiIt'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...
