Rain-spit feeds the beads and drips
on and from the twigs and pegs
silver-blades untidy grass;
softly January slips
as minute dots of flies yet pass
through level calm to seed a breeze.
Deep in winter though we are,
drained the year down to the dregs,
green shoots push through rotting leaves
and darkness rarely bares a star.
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...
