Silver beads lie still
all along the leveled grassblades,
flattened from such heavy dewing
and, where they stand stalwart,
stud their arches
in shining adornment
that will stay,
generous and profuse
through the damp day's grey
cloud-lit noontime
and the fixed afternoon's quietude,
into which Robin
essays his little trills and flourishes.
.
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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...
