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A Grand Stretch In The Evenings

Poetry By: donkylemore
Classics


Always at this time of year , when the evenings lengthen by 2 minutes each day , and the hope of Spring is just round the corner , we all ( here at least ) say " there's a grand stretch in the evenings .
Its almost to say - well we've survived another one ; Bring it on now.


Submitted:Jan 9, 2009    Reads: 122    Comments: 4    Likes: 4   


Every one is saying;
There's a grand stretch
In the evenings .



There's a stirring in the hedgerows,
A rustling in the trees. ;
The sky soars ever higher;
As the sunrise backs
Eastward in the mornings ;
And , veers more boldly westward ,
Less hurried to its evening lair .

The blue bell buds beneath the lusty trunk of sycamore ;
The sea fog in the morning hangs ,
Like gossamer curtains on the sea
And dissipates , as a timid sun enchants ;
And its divests the hills
Of their frilly chastity.


The sun slips over the capstone at New Grange
As it ascends once more on the Ecliptic
And the ghosts of sleeping Celtic Gods
Are whispering on the foamy bearded sea,
At Spiddle pier ,
A haunting lullaby , to the typhoid infants ;
Buried in the unmarked graveyard
On the sighing strand

And the wind turns round my house
Swirling in restless confusion .
Blows; and the saline scent
Seeps through my window sills.

I too am awakening from a hibernation .
I sense again what Moriarty saw in the limestone mountains
-consciousness in hibernation,

Energy , confined , condensed and unexpressed.
It takes time to grasp that concept he'd said
But take it , you must . And I did . And it is.
As he said ; an unexpressed consciousness in hibernation.
He said it on his deathbed , last winter twelve months.

I know its too soon for the broodiness of winter to lift just yet.
I just get glimpses of a promise in the opening sky.
From the lake dropping back each day,
Seeing my boat still upturned , but calling for a coat of paint.
The rods , the tackle ,last years flies


The swans are swirling in the estuarine current,
The mallard waddle 'gainst the stream.
The Crane solitary on spindle leg ;
In the ebbing tide
The gannet soars , presiding down the coastline .

Its too soon to throw back the curtain.
And the inebriate relative , home for Christmas.
Is getting ready for the long dry out;
But he's drunk again by lunchtime knowing ;
That this annual nightmare awaits.

And every one says;
There's a grand stretch
In the evenings .

There's a stirring in the hedgerows,
A rustling in the trees. ;
The sky soars ever higher;
As the sunrise backs
Eastward in the mornings ;
And , veers more boldly westward ,
And less hurried to its evening lair .





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