The wet, the sheen, the beads, the dream.
Sir Sun, where were you when winds whooped
(rain ropes lashed late cowering night)
this early morning groaning?
Yet here clouds come
northwards: bandits twisting, looming up
out of sun-daze, leeching deep heat
from my cheek, stealing a sun-gift garden,
wrapping all in the dull of their cold robes.
And in this mild, undazzled, moody time,
in rosy apple and silver rain-bead light,
in the ambience of wet hedge splatter -
green drops over green leaves - another shower
displaces me again from deep concerns
for you, so very far, my hands dance for
over paper with these symbol sounds to cheer.
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...
