So soaked-sodden and damp-dirked*,
though here's no Cumbria to flood,
no river roars from mountain maws,
but brooks more surly-slide than babble by
the abandoned, up-turned tricycle
where a duck might fuss or paddle
the eddies of a sandy shallow.
Late, late autumn graces us again,
when raspberry leaves are yellow-ocher browning,
persistent wreckage strung, here and there, yet
patterning emptiness with a sly, lithe beauty,
among the bold, bare wires that thrust
their flagrant gestures: "This is Winter's town!"
A child-mind reaches for charcoal,
so tempted to delineate
over a quiet, white-gold, cloud-lit glow,
seen, from the warm, through a bow window.
........................
*A dirk is a Scottish dagger. The damp stabs you is the idea.
See also, from last autumn in 'Hurry Slowly' -
https://www.wattpad.com/84611226-hurry-slowly-late-autumn
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Wintering
PoezjaIt'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...
