Compass

The Return

There's little change but that the pear is bare:-
wintered-wire that tree, budded for spring;
few apples adorn boughs - a chill, still air.
Time's lightest winds have sailed November in.

Tell a lie, elder's yielded, camouflaged
in maple saplings fronting half that length;
and pale, bindweed glories, high entourage:
ephemera twined round sustaining strength.

Dewed hedge-tops webs are star maps in 3D*
no fabric spun on earth to rival them
in this calm, still as any mystery;
a little shake, it seems that high chimes ring.

The dandelions today are hooded up.
Last gulp of coffee's cold. Put down the cup.

.............

*These are not circular webs. But mattings (of white - in the dew) for their floor,  and then this basket-comb (hung with tiny, cloud-lit  dew-pearls) fixed to the tallest privet shoots.