As soon as rain stopped
slow hobs of sidewalk steamed.
Flung a raincoat on a plastic chair -
the weathered wooden table, dry.
Along the face of the hedge
in two-month disarray
each leaf holds a glisten
bright as the crucible
of the teaspoon concavity
lying next a sleeping fly.
Occlude, hulking cloud,
piloted past irresistible Ra,
your dark under busting fire,
dissolving even as you edge by.
Slump back; gulp down tea;
talk of old friends missing.
So, when sun returns,
we're dry as the matt hedge -
teaspoon the only dazzler.
..
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...
