The pigeons 'broo' the way they do
in any season:
____________'Oh, do take it slow,
if so you can do. Oh, for any who
should listen to our old, old news,
should muse with us and choose
to steer on through the slew of days.'
To tilt your head at night's soft eye,
as though there were no churl
anxieties to nag and wheedle -
forest-frost time to glinting needle.
Now drips an odd rain-bead.
It's a midge winter, after all,
again, day after day, the columns play
continuities. Watch passionate flurries
(hypnotic reveries to jiggle)
all their finest moves, decking out
empty air.
_________In afternoon so still
that trees are set in grey and hardly
a nettle trembles.
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...
