It's strangest what we're made of -
late-binning dark, at the black back-gate,
under an alleyed moon,
Venus needling by her shoulder,
how fingers conjure with the feel of keys
our deep selves, half sunk-asleep
younger, clearer, simpler,
confident of the neighborhood,
not a thought of tragedies past,
tomorrow's taxes,
future-inevitable,
stepping through the click of latch
to the street and back -
walk on, walk off:
part-played, job done.
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...
