A lone, wild bee,
furry, ginger thorax all fluffed out
is busy with the bindweed,
deep in each, white, ready trumpet crawls.
She turns within and exits forward, foraging on,
for morning glory's all there is to forage here.
The elder sheds a smattering of leaves
twirling in still air by her unceasing searches.
A hover fly checks out the bramble. Why?
One blackberry's emerged - for the fungi, maybe -
and yet a whole green cluster's hung
for the chances of autumn sun;
and pears a plenty need that softening.
White striped,
the little nut-case-feigning spider's back
on web identically placed and spun
as last week's failed demenses.
This idle stillness augers poor for her down here,
while up there low clouds ride and ruckle
under higher strata
blocking sun
but from meagre in-betweens,
to light the candling dandelion leaves
and overspill with alchemy
the palisades of proffered privet..
..
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Keep The Home Fires Burning
ПоэзияA 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...
