Oh the sun and the blue,
they run us through,
and the river runs blackly by,
dazzled by sun and sky,
whose high-def. ripples smile and shine,
and whose white clouds wool in treacled twine,
by 'Growl-tiger' barges -
prinked houseboats moored,
quiet inhabitants sitting fishing, assured
of the riches of their reflections;
while dog-walkers ease their nervous whippet charges
past a collie's vigilant eye,
one tattered ear a flag becalmed and hung awry,
the other a Flyingdales* contraption.
Turquoise dragonflies double-wing
enamelled exactitudes beneath the booming bridge
we cross for higher ground,
by empty fields of ragwort's golden blooming,
atop the wooded ridge,
where buzzard wheels round
tree tops masking fringes of a wing's deep saw,
as gigglings of small girl scooters wheel-score
cheap-ball-bearing plastic past -
granddad plodding a straining not-so-fast.
Along the green lane of a ditch-fed brake
bright berried, guelder rose
fronting lobed leaves eaten
holey, grape-shot to skeletal shrouds - rake
of sunlight afternooning the beaten
track we high-tail on back, close
the day upon our travelling -
shining translucencies ravelling
in shadows reeling in the after-sun
that cool blue over far
stands of path-concealing trees
and old industries;
until we level back to ever-ready car,
our walking done.
...........................
*Flyingdales in North Yorkshire is an early warning and orbital tracking establishment sharing data with USA.
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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...
