Beneath a tree a fat sparrow's to-do!
Up comes with tuft (a feather?) stuffed in beak.
White glare, milk-cloud-cast haze; it's not so bleak.
Dandelions are struggling to unglue.
Ahs of delight, coos in the mummed garden -
in covered buggy, baby's out next door;
while somewhere in the hedge construction's sure
fur-lined, twiggy stuff, mud, mucus hardened.
Though, technically, winter's three weeks to run,
embouchure the break, sing into the night.
and at the least relenting, just press on
to range - blackbird clarinets in twilight.
Everything cranks up from the minimum:
so over-loud, dad capers like a sprite.
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
