A tattered bramble's new inflorescence -
sun-splash secedes from lidded, rain-spit grey;
Russia rains bombs on civilians;
Assad intends to starve all opposition away.
Since backyard Daesh atrocities narrowed eyes,
Europe hardens its heart against calamity;
new mean laws mean to deter refugees;
the First World is a gated community.
In sullen winds yews mutter, cynical policemen;
a scrappy sun-glare jags a sackcloth cloud,
folds back its dirty flap upon the wound.
Don't you tell me predators abound here, Sparrow.
I know well enough - another siren passes;
another low jet grouses through the gloom.
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...
