While, at the last outpost of its empire,
a blackbird sounds reveille and, next door,
red admirals repose in buddleia,
something of summer, caught in the early air
and gathered, a lightness, perfumed, bold,
is touching narrow, walled-in gardens
where, high over houses epochs old,
wood pigeons flute in maples and a thrush,
lost in the snows of a pear tree, cuts notes
like glass. Neglected blossom lights
along the chipped and blackened bricks, a rush
of scent from satiny blooms, while clovered
lawns are striving for grass.
Note: The poem has subsequently been published at
http://thirdsundaybc.com/2012/05/20/vol-1-no-5/
Pages:
By David Selzer