Oh, the mellow deeps,
the deepest of all mellow
lights in sycamore and thorn -
such a painterly, resinous stain
(Bruegel's ghost conspiring
with photon and drying palisade)
lies in there intrinsically,
natch-revelation, QED,
so justifiably smug-smirking
any old Joe would shout,
'Good on yer, Greengold!'
It seems a hungry
midsummer Eternity,
rubbing its nostalgic gut
sloth-tongued Indian embers
in October's grate.
It's not just
stretching a scintillant belly,
slit-eyed in quiddity,
but performing a slick
backyard firework trick,
coordinated with this
shawled atmosphere, this
Falstaffian, planetary bulk,
heaving over in sleep
and the fiery heart of us all,
so far away reined energies
must Troika minutes here
to be the synecdoche for
all the honey in a moment.
Drink the sweetness of each
day's brief fruition,
watch
that 'petty candle' flicker,
flagging up the 'good deed
in a naughty world'.
Within the magic-lantern stage,
crisp breezes / crisping leaves,
curling at their very edges
'strut and fret', sway, declaim;
and then fall silent,
take a bough.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
'Indian embers' as 'summer weather' in October is traditionally an 'Indian Summer' - not there today... brrr... but for the light, though.
The words in quotes are Shakespeare's, natch.
