There is no settled country of a thought;
like photons, notions, waves indefinite
until inquiry pin them down, as taught:
we seek the form, on nature place a bet.
So too identities. I sit with Yeats,
drink coffee 'from the Country of the Young',
quaver with his pages till the gale abates,
knowing what tune these morning winds have sung.
Circumstances and my own shortcomings
conspire against my mind when I'm alone,
that long futilities might rage on open strings;
the fool would cast the monarch from his throne.
If shivering in wind's the way to be,
I'll goose-bump here until my words agree.
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...
