Now clouds have cleared, I swelter in blue check.
The sun through haze today is August's peer.
and photochromic lenses de rigueur
no scowls, salutes nor cricking of the neck.
Fritillary basks on a bramble leaf
(of several pentad landing pads
laid flat out to the zenith sun),
while suspended between nettle and privet,
a little husk?
No, a white legginged, orb-mistress
fidgets and fusses when she should be still.
Never mind your sagging leggings, ma'am;
food flutters off. Too much for you perhaps?
She's still now, fly-fisher-woman,
dreaming of juicy bundles,
her legs upon alarm cords, head tucked in,
coarse-haired abdomen;
a thin, white centre-stripe
painted so delicately
she seems like a small nut,
case just splitting, defying gravity.
A warm gust roughly shakes her web
but she's not budging. Anyway,
the gust's no stamina this still today.
She's caught one morsel of the smallest fly.
Pragmatic, she ignores its feeble stirrings.
....................
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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...
