It's a cold, cloud-lantern day,
and the fern-brake's slowly rusting
the pale birch trees are thinning
and the ash begun its bronzing.
The low grass holds its greenness
and the nettle is still springing
and a flower of the bramble
here and there in tender shedding.
On Raw Head a strawberry clover,
and this pure hawkbit shining;
and a ragwort ochre flowering
as another is white seeding.
By the cave, midges are dancing
and the robin's song high jinking
though jackdaws shout sharp warnings
of the ravens out and calling.
But the heather's all brown seeding,
just remains of purple flowering
A late crop of tall maize-stalks
clothes the fields we gaze over.
The cock pheasants' cucking
breaks the silence of our thinking
And the slow leaf-strewing woodland,
seems alert now to our looking.
And though some are still blooming,
while others are yet awaiting;
and some begun downfalling,
while others are abating,
I can't change my love or hating
not for wishing nor for fating
neither early nor too-lating
nor soft tear nor bitter raking.
So it goes, so it goes.
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...
