Grey cats behind the trellis steal;
they must go elsewhere for their meal.
To bare, neuronal, budded tree,
let not a thought synapse from me.
New Year dips to a few degrees;
no frost brings Green Man to his knees.
So quiet-still under these grey skies
till gusts begin antipathies.
Let small birds dart and small birds twit
with nothing to be read from it.
Let gulls blow skewed about grey air,
riding this casual winter there,
while lucky we, in warm and snug
shall raise a glass to drain the jug,
signal our wide sympathies,
sunk deep in well-deserved ease.
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...
