No incessant shrieking of gulls,
nor choruses of honking geese today,
the mere is silent, unrippling, and far birds sit
quietly, no restless rearing up to flap.
Fern brakes are rusting into tattering fire
but bramble loops are leaved in livid scarlet.
Birches, their little leaves half-gold, half green,
rain down that precious coin theatrically when swayed
upon the carpet already thickly laid - that carefree
feet may scuff and caper their leaf-swirl over.
Other trees offer up a bough or two of ruddy flame,
or display yellow streaks of capitulation among
the many signatures and ensigns of Autumn's touch.
And all afternoon a soft September sunlight fills
the living leaves with green flame too; and rakes
bole shadows in long parallels over the tan rides.
...
CZYTASZ
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoezjaA 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...
