Compass

Maybe You Want To Know (Again)?

How in late, gusty, August grey,
though little appears to be happening,
but for (sadly blotched) apples slow-swelling,
pulling harder on the bows of boughs

(no pears at at all this year -
spring so mistimed their blossom re the little wings -
rough winds delayed a bumble launch, maybe),

yet everything here that still has a shout
(not much of twitter)
is up for a little more:

one washing-peg spider's caught a fat fly;
dandelions are setting off a few
yellow guys for the odd seed globe;
willow-herb is in delicate and petite purple,
right next to the tall, white bones
of its empty pods.

Remembering blackberries at the garden back,
straight off I trot.
Mm. But. Some extra sweet / tart / gritty I disown -
Ptah! Spit out whatever insect / larva
is upon / within.

Although, you know, I've swallowed some fast;
so back to table stumble,
wash 'em down with great gulps of strong coffee.