Not much of a lark, to rise at five
in the 'fell of dark' as farmers do
of course, of course, and others too,
shaking off sleep, being barely alive.
Dessert spoonful of coffee and hold the tea-
bag hard to squeeze out what you can.
The car mists so; pull in; then set off again.
Park in the short stay - floodlit the scene.
That's no nightingale piercing singing.
It's a robin tweeting of these well-lit roads,
pre-dawn early-blurt, for song's sake, ringing
solo.
We'll take it for the two of us, bundles
tearful on a platform before the train trundles
automaton away - and a plane cranks the globe.
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...
