Robin in September
Robin comes tormenting air,
a rinsing bliss
through high, white hiss,
within my hearing thistling there,
a piercing, sweet-trilled comforter.
May woods we walked were all thrush* song
eternities - hollowed, gone,
receding low-res memories
till spring provoke more melodies.
Though time's a horn and will resound
yet all his highest notes are found
in quiet when Robin sings clear,
stilled gardens, in September.
.......................
*The robin is the smallest of the thrush family.
.......................
Littlest Hover Fly
Tiniest of hover-flies,
in and out the dandelion leaves
what are you seeking under thistledown towers?
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...
