The impossible may have its reasons
A conumdrum of twigs and branches.
Embittered by frost, earth grows
Proverb: The spirit is willing, but the
legs are short.
A Diesel tried to start, and stuck. All its
teeth rattled and it brayed loudly.
An oak grumpily consented to flourish.
Shivering air imagines snow.
The grasses move in faint, wagging
A meditation of white roses.
Rooks kark their wrangle in the wood...
A quiet ambience of old thistles.
Reduced by irony
He doubts the grace of joy,
Which vanishes in fresh gold light.
Irony's a law built-in
Deep in the womb where genes begin:
Man must lose so God can win.
The Quick and the Dead
Who is that fellow with the stick,
Halted by the shadow of a tree?
He bears no resemblance to me.
Gold sunshine plays some trick;
I'm held in shadowland to see:
Life's still living, though not 'quick'.
He struts, stiff and stringy, into the
Ducks like a puppet under the strolling
And returns to port, his duty done.