I shall live within a dark lintel,
where a wizened child
has stopped rocking and crying;
an infant king
has ceased pacing and raging.
Rain falls on bowed buddleia heads,
drips from higher to lower leaves.
There is no need to grieve,
nor for the long legged flies, the lawyers
to wrangle self-serving angles,
clumsily careening off.
The rain beats its tattoo now:
intricate music forcefully crescendos
but all we hear is a white hiss
deepening on inured green leaves
over tarmac-swashing traffic.
..
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...
