22nd September 2011

More ancient tread has walked this umber path -

Bed-warm, I trace the way of drover’s horse;

Ochre piss-beds yawn dew as my feet pass

And easing gloom calls on my unsure course.

 

To the tune of some shrill bird I dance

Near the huddled tribe of a haughty copse

Where hatching tight trees stand and, upright, mask

Birth-groans of viridian eager crops.

 

Smudged edges of my cerulean view

Sees a world arising; still half drawn

And Impressionist’s trees in their shadows pool

While citrus sunlight sings in the trenchant dawn.

 

Assailed, I stand and can only measure

The artistry of this Spring’s new treasure.