By Tim Fletcher
Stopping to shade under
Boughs bent by weight
Of broadleaves so thick and green
With health and old water,
Drawn from the cold, dark earth,
Far from the puzzled surface.
Around the bend the blossoms
Sweeten air and meet
The blackberry whispers
Carried to them from the briars.
The dog’s too hot to frolic
And inquires with a nose.
Sleeves rolled, and hair sun-yellow,
He mops his gentle perspiration.
A pair of parakeets are tweeting
Approbation for their borrowed home
Before the globe spins and strips
The stems and sticks to monochrome.
The months hasten their tumble
And shake the trees naked;
Their colour to ground,
Browned and crumbling.
The peat smell of mown grass
Piled up by the path to rot,
Though the sickly sweet and sour
Of the dead and dying flowers
Was there not 6 weeks past.
Sodden mud trod in to boots
And sucked with every step
‘Til stumped he stands to find
These lands as malleable as man,
For all his soft geographies.
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