It'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...
What's in a day, a name, that March has come? What boots it on the route* to leave poor Feb. (uncommonly kind) behind?
True, a mild day coos this opener of the way:
three dandelions have made it into disks and right-angle their ecliptic to a bright crack in the sky;
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pear boughs continue with their risk - tiny, untidy barbel-mouth of a split, well-bred bud, pursed in the oh-slow process, mute displeasure in one so prim-shy.
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Ramp up but a few degrees and flies are wearing-in their wings though waiting in them still the great majority to come.
For really it's a matter of degree: each day may give a greater angle to the sun, until its graph of gain peaks* at the equinox; and then sun takes its time, ambles,
edging ever more slowly up to solstice summer to loose the deep illusions of eternity.
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*UK rhymes 'route' with 'boot' not with 'out'
*'peaks' or 'steeps' depending on how you draw the graph - the gain in the length of daylight is greatest at the vernal equinox.
I have the actual bud featured - sorry about my old hand there; my dumb phone would not focus on the bud and it was just a blur without a near background to encourage the poor automatics. I know, I should learn how-to...
