1
Empty are these skeletal umbels
of hedge-parsley and hogweed,
their seedless, dried stalks rocking in big wind
as new waves of frenzied white umbelliferae
judder along the verges
above jaunty ragwort.
Scrub and trees, the windbreaks
lining our way wave in agitation.
Cumulus wild-twisted,
deep sculpted in sunlight,
hurry their dark bellies
across a cirrus promise.
Various white seeds,
whirled along the highway,
veer round vehicles,
pass our windscreen,
taking the slipstream.
2
Spear-grass dried,
sere-bleached,
bowed with the wind
under willows by the Cam...
Coxless women's double sculls display
their skill in blow and current
on a multi-faceted water,
beaten, dinted, raised and crazed
by this golden rush which shakes
the tresses of weeping-willows so,
hurries us half off our feet
(It's easy to walk miles)
but harasses our way back,
suddenly pushing us off curbs,
disrupting conversations
with ear-popping blusters.
3
You want to sit in sunlight in your garden, yet,
as we arrange the chairs, cold clouds cut in.
We persist in our tea-party until sun returns,
synchronous with a sharpish shower.
.
ΔΙΑΒΑΖΕΙΣ
Keep The Home Fires Burning
ΠοίησηA 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...
