A sky of blue and rag-rolled dapple cloud,
five-yellow heads and one clock set to blow,
so many web-stuck flies for spider shroud,
bindweed's white trumpets opening more show;
and when the sun's allowed his centre-stage
the tigers in his molten furnace rage.
I wish you here with me within my play,
this tatty wilderness the scene as shown,
oh poor, yet rich in robin song today,
the shining green, this heat, October's own.
Though far away, yet sit in thought with me
and bask in balm and sweet serenity.
The streaming cloud can barely subdue Ra,
the rajah here dispensing such largesse.
Praise reaching up tall golden grasses are,
as on the pears he lays his hands to bless.
And yet a shade sails, alchemy to claim,
this jeweled day hang from an autumn chain.
Now robin's rinses scrub out sorrow's sting
as sun breaks free, demonstrative in power:
this moment is to celebrate and sing
and never mind the passing of the hour.
And sweeter is the silence of my phone
as with you near me now, I sit alone.
.
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...
