A bright and breezy six degrees,
New Year's Eve brunch-time savor,
sun behind yews occluded,
sibling sparrows gusting flit.
Look where the little flocklet sit,
seven notes in an elder-stave,
by straying lilts of bramble.
If I were a Bach what fugues might rise
from silhouettes of pausing birds,
cemented by sun-spark to the eyes,
flitting over the FACE of twig parallels -
or Bruckner-up symphonic themes,
where brassy horns replace those horny beaks,
and piccolo the robin's tongue,
mid-string me a pigeon leitmotif,
let me float again in such music,
timeless as when a boy first did -
__________________________ assign
the cello to those gulfs of years
that separate me now from him.
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...
