With such graduality,
_________________not darting flocklets flitting
over peripheral triggers,
______________________nor cloud crowds'
steady passage - such a long sky-roll - each
an air-brushed painting in its various phases
wind-cranked across the stagy sky,
_____________________________the last late
month of autumn, November-December straddling,
embers like a red-dwarf star to brown, fire-coal
whose sparks the wind might rake and whirl;
and the wintering sun, who settles to low arc,
seeks out remnants of the rags and seeds;
the last leaves, harried by unpredictable gusts,
yet hang to flicker sunlight in their flap
over the fence edge to this garden basin.
These silhouettes are glare-dissolved
it seems to ascertaining eyes, receiving
the sun's deep seal and maxim - faithful word;
all glancing variants verify one signature.
And now a dog protests too much, in tedium,
through gleams and glooms broadcasting
his cat-tormented soul, placarded barks,
stapling yelps, while the offending feline
quietly pads along the fence tops or, criminally,
stops to watch, stir up more futile fury there,
lick a paw.
________I am grateful, even for this annoyance,
when, in terror and deprivation, so many endure
the savage devastation of repression and war.
Perhaps a moment's peace is its own being
and can walk
from this garden
to others who drink up words
as I down this coffee.
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...
