Rosy apples jiggle
(clustered boggle-eyes)
and the whole tree nods and sways
like some animatronic monster,
its dry, skreeking, cries
the springs of the tramp*.
Nettles lean out flagrantly,
black stalks attempting
to parallel the ground,
their shrunk leaves dusted with fungus;
and I find the last of the blackberries
have slunk to grey, clotted rot.
I pick up a windfall (or a Joe-fall). Scarlet
it screamed up at me from trodden grass:
"All alone, my pretty one?" Destined for
a Snow White if ever apple was.
Nature's carousel has slowed:
the calliope low wheezes;
bolting horses drift by, nostrils still flaring;
the lady-boy peacocks affronted
in their dawdling careen....
Ripeness and rankness
peaking at summer's back-end,
wistful today under a blank sky.
.......................
*Trampoline
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...
