Hide

We will count 

The grains we leave

The feeders we line 

Round the yard’s rim we

Will design for privacy 

Shade we can not

Account against the weather 

We will dance about

But not affect

Our stance on apathy

New hubritic yawn against 

The rails of ecology and erosion 

          (and split trunks)

Divide the length of a fence 

Falling in on us 

Closer the moment

We can look at supporting 

Trellis and measure 

Ascent and limb 

Weight against descent and climb 

Wait for losses dread 

Fall to come

While we away while 

Our time in the retreaded count 

          (of the feeders)

Passed us by this year

What renewal there is 

In the path

Along the edge

Demeaned in frost

          (or at least)

Bemoaned at the frost

          (to come)

It will be September but still

We anticipate the upheaval 

Ice will bring 

We are parched

After showers slice of silenced

Wait in start to parts of weight

Bare the hides of interest

No eve of tides bearing to sooth

Mottled frame-work, all code

Dissolves in a caesura of shard

Crack and slash, back, ends

The trellis will collapse or release

Its burden of flowered shade, breadth

Of fall as measured by bark

Leaf silver showers

Will light the private markings, green and gold,

Fuchsia,

Change so deep we will almost see 

All the way

When the moon 

Is aligned

To China

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved