A snail dance courtship trail
remains of the night's Bacchanalia,
this lazy late August Sunday afternoon.
What wild darts these hermaphrodites must have shot.
How many one hundred and eighties!
Where have all the songbirds gone?
It's just chirrup and twiddle and fidget -
not even a pigeon to lecture me
reproachfully.
Intrinsic dignity of tall weeds
in all the stills of their stages of
flowering and running to seed.
Even the wasps are mellowed out today
with their low, slow examination of the table,
making roundabout approaches to my fingers.
More dangerous like that,
lazy clingy,
worst once fruits fizz
fermenting under bruises and intrusions:-
stung when you scratch your head or curl
you fingers round a tea-mug.
Something to look forward to.
That poor chained dog has oratory in his futile tirades,
partnered today some more doors down. They can
chorus and antiphon antipathy.
Little soldier fly sucking nectar
from the lilac willow-herb.
Yes, it's sweet.
YOU ARE READING
Under The Wings
Poetry.Under the Wings of the Egyptian and world-wide respected Goddess, Isis. Poems of Nature, Inner Resonance and Mythology.
