The swifts long gone,
now squads of seagulls skim the sky,
crossing and recrossing,
moving on.
Clouds drift pacifically,
tissues and filaments dipped in blue,
combed-up edges
...
Two hours we orient through maize maze
ripe corn walled, sun & shade a perfect anime.
On shrieking reconnaissance
enunciating clearly their piping discoveries
treasuring the factoids
vague shadows flicking across the bowed blades
the bearded cobs, rustle of tall stalks
...
Sun, lolling low, picks out my ripe apples,
the high albedo of their waxen skin -
shiny rose/green baubles,
a painterly instillation
shaken to the rhythm of the netted trampoline
those boughs are pressed against,
the rough machine of Joe's deep bouncing.
None fall.
They're not quite 'eaters,' make good bakes,
cinnamon and bramble cores.
I'd keep a pitiful few
and try to give as many as I could.
It's their simple plenary, limbs loaded to breaking
wished for in winter, celebrated in spring
the bumble buzz of bees whose need pleased,
brought me this bumper crop,
summary of summer.
The west's laid out in long raw strip-light clouds
blink and the sun's gone. A cold, mackerel ash,
drifts and disguises dusk exhalations,
Grey-shawls tell their own true tales.
..
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...
