Breath steams as does coffee this three degrees
of damp, grey day where not a grass-blade stirs;
scarred, cloud-banked sky a casual drift avers;
pert blackbird blurs a twig in his thorn trees.
I listen to the wash of common sound,
become the listening, as a fisherman attent
on something deep, past breeze-frost surface, sent
to grace a hook, bob float, rippling rebound.
But, ah, there is a patient, quiet Joy,
who sits with me, bundled in pupal clamp,
delaying inroads of this chilling damp;
and after deafening siren banshees by,
robin conquistadors his whistling,
my dull patina burnishing, dinting.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PuisiIt'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...
