These hazy, hothouse days that end in mist,
obscuring tidal flats and harbour creek,
wind through pined paths where seawards trees, salt-kissed,
have rusted orange in all needles, bleak;
inundation of sea, the sky, the sun,
headstrong giddies us, rusts our skin too -
nights of no stars, or fuzz-hazed famous few -
yet we hope these slurring slow days will run.
The Cambridge overtops the Oxford blue,
on ochre sands where treasures lonely lie:
owlstone stares eldritch at the seagull sky.
Our passing feet disturb her reveries,
plunging again into warm, foamy seas.
...............................
Don't tell me it has 13 lines only. Sometimes 13 lines is better. :))
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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...
