Sun-glare obliterates all it might:
silhouette sticks of the elder sublime
at their reaching edges
and the topmost boughs of the apple trees too
are caught in the furnace.
My inquiries lead only to blindness;
and all's black in the fenced shadow
of the garden back.
But white clouds with top-gallant wisps
vanguard grey armadas
that take their weighty time.
"No more!" a raven rasp-complains,
wielding black saws, low over rooftops,
looking for bother.
The few dandelions are hooded tight
in the lee of the hedge -
beneath the pear tree, their adventurer
slain by overnight rain,
rots among drip-pearled grasses.
Now, to make a show of it,
the white clouds and the grey-dark,
(a chorus jostling for prominence,
upstaging each other,
shot through to the southern zenith
with odd pieces of jig-sawed light
bright smudges, startlingly sharp edges)
open and close their shining crevasses.
And I'm at a loss
to make a point of all these alarms and excursions,
interchanges of mood,
the play the day and I are scripting for you -
(I can't say with some Zeilinger,
of quantum philosophy,
that information is reality and
reality is information)
only that this will end in drizzle,
shivers and retreat. ;)
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...
