A day when 'mome-raths' would 'outgrabe', Baby,
on the 'wabe' in Feb.!
Full ball of sun, fovea cones to scarify
and bless the rest - more than a ghost of warm,
despite a breeze with all its marbles and whetstone.
Fair-weather air is full of little flies
their wings, fuzzes of burred light, drifting them so.
Webbed is the bird-feeder post to washing line;
gilt-glint runs along the strands of gossamer
that show intent between the apple boughs.
Diaphanous cloud-gauzes drift semi-solutes,
triply parallaxed below such
hazed-blue, solvent sky.
Bleached, stiffly upheld sticks of elder
have burst their buds -
and what's with the magpies?
They fly 'funny'.
Lost your straight lines, then?
That you swerve across and back the breeze-head
beating wings so feebly
- hovering! Hunting!
Looking for nests in hedgerows, trees and bushes,
as blackbirds chuck-chuck:
"Watch out baby!
Everything's outgraby!"
................................
*Apart from vocab derived from Lewis Caroll, has a touch of Dr Seuss' 'Whacky Wednesday' to it, but its Tuesday. Atchoo!
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Wintering
PoesieIt'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...
