Rough winds may play this day, trailed twigs to sway,
to thresh and ply while sun's faint gaze looms out,
but for a darker cloud to shroud in doubt;
yet, lemon-eyed, brightness will have his say;
and despite these winds robust inquiries,
burring stiff sticks of restless elders, now,
the ruffed yews will hardly yield a bow,
for all their fine-fringed obsequities.
Prognosis is a warm austerity,
breached by the generosity of weeds:
moss, docks, grass growing through apple rot,
opportune dandelion leaves, to be
foundations of future's make-up - frost forgot
to stop the growing season, quell their needs.
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...
