What is this new thing: rain?
Saturday's puddles, perfect planes of sharp refraction;
Baked mud trapped under airless crystal.
Now summer is stored:
The ponies' fat, the squirrelled seeds; berries shout 'come hither',
Insect larvae burrow and dive, ready for winter's sloth.
Autumn is getting on her glad-rags.
No comments:
Post a Comment