While sun tattoos my retina,
that dog tattoos my ear;
a brindle tom and painted tom
stalk each other near.
If I had a thought, the sun to melt,
that vexed bark would smear.
A big, black fly's in the bird-bath:
Joy says, "He's for a paddle!"
But why's a big, black fly about,
our seasons all to addle?
Autumn's farewell, spring's re-issue: -
absence should stitch time's treadle.
Legs dimpling the meniscus
that such a weight must bear
"A hefty brute," Joy tells me,
"could power out of there."
Must want a bit of water, then,
water-walking debonair.
I'm not so sure with wet wings
it could so change a fate;
the level's low, the rim is high -
knew the mistake too late.
It cannot climb a grass straw,
but the flat of the knife from my plate.
So, sodden down a yellow stalk
the sorry furze must crawl,
while sun recedes down angled roof,
soft haze to white ball pall;
and drips lie pearled on bare, black prongs
and stillness raptures all.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoesíaIt'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...
