It's been a Ra and rah-rah blue-sky day
up there, ah, short the skirting hours, low-glow
(as sweet as any drifting dream in May)
razzle-sun burning-up the roadway so;
but stark-bleak-naked what that sharp light delves:-
flower-hearts and leaved boughs, buzz-bumble-dreams,
all the decorations of summer selves,
boxed in buds and bulbs, seeds and sleeping queens.
Strange at empty nadir we remember
suddenly, deep-spring, summer wingful-sky;
and in time-compression* my sullen dolour
flashes of sweet deceit you knew love by.
Though summer will return, resurgence real;
yet time diminish all those smarts we feel.
........................
*Like a compression-bandage on a wound.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
