The deepest cart rut, blessed in its disuse
with chamomile to part where wheels sank deep,
necessity be woken from her sleep
to groan a load of timber through that sluice,
the aromatics an iron hoop might press
sweeten the oxen-breath that labors there -
and though, then, winter luggings are all bare,
the track lingers a redolent address.
Nature so curls about our purposes
to decorate the almost derelict,
beguiling us down paths of memory.
Old habits find their old surfaces -
neglect made picturesque in half decay.
Blackbird urging from cover his new tract...
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...
