Some days, furthest from winter,
summers peaks, wrist-burning
heat-stroking, barely liveable,
glaring to blindness, darkest the shades
languishing lolling, something ineffable,
you breathe-in, drink-in
cock ear to, pivoting moments
reviewing years in a burning-glass,
vistas of time trailing their ribbons,
crests of summer superimposed,
hothouse days shimmering together;
and, at the wrong end of binoculars,
midwinter memories huddling.
Suddenly glasses lurch round and
snowball powders my hair.
Your gloved
hands paddling it off.
Big black fly
buzzes all else out.
That tiniest of spiders gated the way
to the apple trees again.
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
