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Delicate petals of hawthorn,
a plenty left upon the tree,
freckle broad dock leaves,
confetti their festival generously.
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Floating seeds in cat's paw breeze,
pause en pointe in air
by noses, as we sit
dozing in garden chair,
mesmerized by hawthorn scent,
the blackbird's changing phrase.
Let grasses though our gravel grow,
and lazy all our days.
A gust springs up to blow our clocks,
remind us of the time;
a scattering of seeds process
too diverse for a rhyme.
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...........................
'Could you get lazier?' I ask my Joe.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
