Poetry

Those days with the wind swaying in the trees
those grey misty days of swirling leaves,
of tumbling autumn days falling into water -
the sea lapping around the legs of the pier
watching days, days curled up and crinkled...
do you remember that day, when

Evenings firelit - rain rattling on slate -
wind howlubub hubbing at the tiles above -
rain spatters the window's hollow green glass.
These days and those days - rose from above
the zenith soaring time's track.

Cool evening air between beech-tree groves
where leaves flutter down to fascinate the wanderer
nature's miniature moves a thrilling Muse to eye of joy
and woodsmoke's incense curling and diffusing....

Golden days, silver days of rain's glistening
tracery - moons, crunching paths a-wander
through furlongs fresh, harvest globes aglow
rippling pewter mirror of mackerel scatter
newt-tracks - crinkling the zenith

Sandstone ruins rooked by clacking
crowbodies - beaks - feathers blueblack
and beaks that clack - clutching claws cold
days of rooks a-flight in fluttering glassy nights
and dew-drenched hedgerows of bramble by
the gypsy's canvas hut.

Days on the move, horses shunting at the
collar, hooves a-clatter, sparking on roads
of night - past bramble miles and brackens
braking hills adrift with pink clouds glowing
slows in the hedge, cobwebs, moss and sedge

Faded brown photographs of days
in dreamy sunlight - kept in mahogany box
monoplanes whir, their wires taught, strings of
improbable Chinese guitars of the Butterfuly
brand - sealed with ambergreise - turquoise -
wax flocks in flux of beeswax bucks -
days like these flood by in flocks.