Branch of the pear, precipitately
pushed apart its brown bud-scales,
barred them with pale elongations,
water-color, lemon-yellow.
Since
there are no false starts in these events,
penalties or benefits emerge
with the season.
Last year the early pear
proved barren, flowering in that cold,
clean of little flies, before bumbles busied
themselves with clotted clusters blossoming,
apple trees deployed most timely.
Daffodils along the verges, stems sturdy
for stiff breezes and lorry slipstreams,
have opened their golden lamp-shades -
but then they need no bees nor seed,
sufficient in their energy-efficient bulbs,
stalks, leaves, quietly photosynthesizing
after the trumpets have done with cheering.
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...
