Another keen investment in this 'spring'
that blackbird singing deep into the dusk.
Oh, if weak winter stir within his husk,
see periwinkle straggle, hear this tongue ring.
Poor February's unaccustomed smile:
a crumpled grin drawn on a puppet fist -
a shrug: no snow and ice, cold gales so missed,
mists too, no skulking the ditch-level mile.
Don't turn clocks back now, not on chickweed towers,
storied tenements of paired leaves building,
between bootsteps, nor blossoming plum
shivering out white, gust-chilled bowers,
nor all bursting integuments to drum
spring, skirl it through a dull bewildering.
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...
