Wet grass heads sway slower, stiffer,
soaked washing's restless like a sullen queue.
Low, smoky clouds hurry, bellying by,
while the sun in stratocumulus
plays The Eye of Horus.
Big raindrops on the lounger frame,
pearl strings on the grass,
wet leaf-runnels,
more grey bulks hustle past,
caught in sudden glory as sun emerges.
Oh, the machinations of the air
and all the silvered edges moving there,
blindingly transcended as they unlid Aten clear
yet back into cloud cracks it's maneuvered round,
bright Horus eye again
(green blotches on my vision
from looking too long).
The great liners, the smaller steamers,
the chubby tugboats pass,
the long flotillas
their sails and masts crossing indistinguishably;
and there's a dolphin ridden by a boy -
indefatigable processions
disappearing northeast.
..
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...
