The tiniest of flies
flying straight by
still skeletons of groundsel
in a battered wheelbarrow,
over little virid weeds, spread
flat against the peat, again
released from morning frost.
Although flagstones bite
at stockinged feet,
air on hands and face is
warmed by a lolling disc
crowning the neighbours house
across the way
with impenetrable dazzle.
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
