What has transformed
this scratty, orchard wilderness
is not the winter, spring,
the summer, autumn,
is not the wind, the rain,
the sun, the stillness,
is not the bare endure,
the shock of flower,
the leafy hustle,
the ponderous ripeness,
it is that each grass,
longer leaves a yellow-edging now,
beaded or unbeaded,
stirred or snapshot-quiet,
is for you, my gift of magic,
wherein all spells
are sunny spells,.
and from no book rooked out,
though to a book with pages ripe to fly.
The hedge leaves shake themselves in wind
to fling off dazzling droplets -
golden swimmers
out of a sun-lapping pool -
and there is
high giggling in curling apple leaves.
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...
