Three dowager trees, in full regalia
of rain-bead pearl-strings, reign supreme again,
confront the sulky sun who glares from cloud;
but all their court is bare - the birds sulk too.
The ice pane from the bird bath, lifted out -
a whitened winter window, knife-edge flanged.
At least the sodden table now refrains
from dribbling most unseemly on my thigh.
Black boughs and drips, the smell of gradual melt
the austere trappings of a winter fest,
though afternoon regathers up cold bonds
that brethren ice shows solidarity
and lights the stars upon the shed roof then
and on the table too as dusk deeps down.
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...
