Purple buds tip all the boughs
that under-over lie,
that have woven all their histories
beneath the sky,
pergola for a blackbird's hop
across a fruited floor,
loose cage swayed by a cold breeze
while fine drizzles pour,
gusted with sparrows, then empty rakes
(yet primed with delight);
sun, emerging from a dazzled cloud
paints a map of light;
morning diffracts through evergreens
to bare boughs sleeping, floods
inner lands with a secret smile
for patient, purple buds.
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...
