Alone again and back in sun-trap,
I examine the tall tales of grasses,
hear their sibilant catechism,
inquire of the nettles their non-
existent sins, despite their August get-up;
their green, floral dreadlocks,
thick, shrunken leaves
and black-stemmed macho.
I scan the sunlit, reach with an exactitude
of quibbling imagination
in through sharp blades of shadow
to pooling dark.
I weigh up the bough-pulling tug of apple-globes,
detain a floating seed for travel papers;
yet take the tickle bribe and release it.
I ask the little green-bottles, who share my table -
but in none of these virtuous inhabitants do I find
the least trace or rumour of your presence.
..
..
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...
