Willow pith of day
the slow chew,
stranded and dry,
just a whisper
of zest,
nearly a memory
or a whim.
A violin feeds
its newborn
villagers growl
at still
blue trucks,
the hedge wilts
orange wind noise,
washing line tilts
hysterical dervish
wishes for wishes
Sid crows, demi-dawn, cool night breeze folds,
falls from fan.
Remnants remain: crusted, polythene grass;
stale tobacco;
grand damned poems;
the truce is over, the murder is resumed.
Back to where it all began, square one squared,
one more dance, duplicated dalliance.
So the day is done. The same old same old
Step out hand in hand in
Vellum gloves
Freaks out,
Cauli’s out early
too,
much ado
about garden,
inside
Chopin mazurks
On a croissant
Something lurks above
A dove with a glove
A weasel with an easel
In the murk…
…hear road spray surge
Saturday morning shipping
muggy, sticky, sweaty,
laurel oil shining
yellow, yellow flower,
slug and nomad,
fennel sags and drips,
splashing,
plushing the petrichor,
boney, stony, earthly delight
sigh and swoon
Sun and Moon
A good evening
all in all.
Neither short
nor tall.
Just right.
Like
Spaniel ears
Or
Tapwater
Galactic dawn,
wet as water:
Ponds ’r’ Us!
Like a mucky duck
the weatherman
walks on warm, thin ice,
looking up anxiously
Sees
serene green scene
creams obscene
at tulips pouting,
kind epileptic fish,
sanguine potholed saucepans
latterday Saturday vertebrae.
Endless list: catalyst.
We swoon,
shrug it off,
embrace
&
turnover leaves
Freaky vibes, cold, shivery.
On the brightest day it gets dark,
extreme breeds extreme,
bipolar is not an axis,
no high or low
like prices or buildings,
it is unproscribable.
There are no absolutes
Just givens.
Warmer now.
Elegiac:
it rolled out one summer’s morning,
thick roll-up in one hand
tar strong coffee in the other,
halted atop the ramp
to take dappled light
took this picture:
green wheelbarrow homes
old yellow milkcrate
left side of
giant cypress treetrunk;
three paving slabs
lean leftside
propping up three
intact mauve
plastic sacks
(compost) .
Generally the earth is parched grey, arid, and ill lit.
This is a gravelly land, conifers did well here till
the buildings cropped up to replace them.
Down the hill is a loamy valley, which floods a lot.
These were the fields where the villagers
who lived up here in the pinewoods worked.
It is called Clayhill
Rain, sultry rain.
Opaque grapes,
leaden sky fruit,
burst on copious,
oil dark
plush olive,
swooning,
spaded,
luscious leaves.
Three chirrup
kaleidoscope toucans
tenderly engage
a dopey puffin then
hunker down within
the livid dense canopy
to share a light
repast of slender wafers
over a convivial round
of knock out whist.
Tuesdays,
no matter the weather,
is Housey-Housey,
a rainforest favourite
throughout the ages.
Beastlings from yards
Around always
Attend
Fickle
Shadows
Juggle
quick, startling sun spores
A spook of
Ions
Coalesces
to unveil
Jasper Bush
Grimbeau 