Dearth for orb spinners -
another day of stillness:
grasses hardly sway seed tips;
even the uneven cloudbank
drifts imperceptibly.
Another day of avian no-comment -
small birds reserve judgment;
gulls wing high,
giving each other all the sky they can.
Two days ago I found a drone ant
exhausted. Couldn't or wouldn't fly;
business done
he was crawling off to die..
Today's so sparsely populated
by any fussing insects;
whatever's going on of note
dances behind the pear tree.
My wasp pays a visit: 'Go, on! Shoo!'
Minuscule fly takes tour around
some jutting stems of privet.
Tattered webs are vacancies,
and all the sunny derring-do
of bridging hawsers gone.
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...
