Light breezes stir beneath grey-lidded day.
Propelled by muscled breast, a peregrine
hauling-wing-tip-curl, dart-tilt, angling-in
on what? White gulls wheel high above the play -
falcon's grace in power, such efficiency.
While angle-grinders drone their monotones,
sirens yodel, 'Trouble will find your bones.'
Magpie rattles startling insistency.
You think its safe? Death strikes so suddenly,
rends your breast with terrible beak and claw
or rubbles your home, scatters shrapnelled limbs.
Lucky to be warned by some savvy magpie,
lucky in on the wrinkle, have somewhere
to travel to - or drift on the wind's whims.
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...
