A Gardener And His Saw Poem by james watkin
A Gardener And His Saw
An old saw's hoarsened rhythms
Played across a bough
Are pitched in the autumnal
With this ghastly howl.
With tranced ears' diagnostic
That season's chill bites!
For out the tree itself tis!
A pain that ignites.
Brings his toothed tenor, to Spring's
Orchestrated bouts.
Fainter and fainter, the air
With bees thereabouts.
Thursday, April 25, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: autumn
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4/19/2024 3:12:13 PM # 1.0.0.1119
