It's pretty much all -
light stained and strained
through black twig-tangles,
Breughel might have painted
(even to the steaming breath)
in miniature,
left its humane signature,
within a gilded frame,
in a gallery
a hundred miles away,
whose doors close upon nightfall.
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...
