"At least it's dry today," I say under grey,
laid on loaded over any hint of brightness -but eek! (Sound 'Psycho' chords,
yes, and Debbie's garish chav nails drawn
across a slate chalk-board,
classroom museum-piece, if you like.)Levitate from chair and tear
a few paces to gawk the gawk
at the thing on a squat and burly stalk,
shrieking up then grinning such yellow gold,
petals bladed rays,
jagged up jackanapes sunny disposition,
under this tax-paying-deadline
of a leaden day;and somewhere Eric Idle sings
in mind's fond backyard -
the usual song;and, don't ya know, the whole
ground is covered with chickweed,
new nettles for old,
grasses with flowering heads a finger tall,
a multitude to cover every bit of damp, black soilall muttering, tutting their brave proclamation:
"January is the new March!"Oh. But what, my babies, will you do
should Jack Frost return with yearning revenges
to rive your succulent cells with ice spikes?What if Feb.'s a month to cull,
curtail your seeded dreams?
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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...