Days Spawning
Posted: Thu Dec 06, 2012 3:31 pm
DAYS SPAWNING
It’s bloody hot the grass is long - we’re expecting a Christmas throng
of family, friends and hangers on.
Best cut the grass this morning.
So dash the cloud shrouds from your eye, and do the doggy pick up – Why?
You’ll work it out and see it fly,
to late – it won’t give warning.
The motor of the mower spews, exhaust fumes and billows of blue
smoke – to much fuel I did infuse
to start mowing this morning.
There’s one old shoe there on the grass, and one old dog licking – let’s pass
on that subject – totally de’classe’
when mowing in the morning.
The whispering ferns o’er edges froth, too bad - I’ll simply mow them off
as scent of jasmine makes me cough.
I hate these mowing mornings.
Far rather in short shadows I would take my paints and let my eye
wander across the lightening sky
embracing the days dawning.
As stars in milky twinkling foam, turn out their lights and head for home.
The old moon laughed – now left alone
until his mate comes yawning.
A bright red rock in misty sea of fairy floss – pink tinged, fluffy
Splendiferous - displayed for me.
I never find that boring.
Maureen Clifford © 12/12
It’s bloody hot the grass is long - we’re expecting a Christmas throng
of family, friends and hangers on.
Best cut the grass this morning.
So dash the cloud shrouds from your eye, and do the doggy pick up – Why?
You’ll work it out and see it fly,
to late – it won’t give warning.
The motor of the mower spews, exhaust fumes and billows of blue
smoke – to much fuel I did infuse
to start mowing this morning.
There’s one old shoe there on the grass, and one old dog licking – let’s pass
on that subject – totally de’classe’
when mowing in the morning.
The whispering ferns o’er edges froth, too bad - I’ll simply mow them off
as scent of jasmine makes me cough.
I hate these mowing mornings.
Far rather in short shadows I would take my paints and let my eye
wander across the lightening sky
embracing the days dawning.
As stars in milky twinkling foam, turn out their lights and head for home.
The old moon laughed – now left alone
until his mate comes yawning.
A bright red rock in misty sea of fairy floss – pink tinged, fluffy
Splendiferous - displayed for me.
I never find that boring.
Maureen Clifford © 12/12
