Content's no con
to tent upon,
though bird quick flick
an eye
and lorry shake
dull scaffolding,
hand-propping chin
slouch I.
A little fly
with words collides,
stir-whirs her wings'
alarm.
Bounce better here
than webs, my dear;
but, visit through,
she's gone.
Though dog faux howl
from joking jowl
and rain think spit
from sky,
gust-stir the air,
in waiting game
of March, hand-propped,
slouch I.
Buds burst on thorn;
leaflets adorn
and elder's tufted
so,
canes* pushing green,
yet to be seen
how fast the pear
will go.
There is no scoop
or loop the loop
so half asleep
I drift.
No trick to miss,
slow March in bliss -
of verse I make
short shrift.
..................
*raspberry canes overwintered
