Spring dusk; Creak of bats’ wings Over the steel river, Curlew-call Of the lemuring owls. Or this paragraph: A wrought-iron starkness of leafless trees Stands sharply up along the valley skyline. The cold north air, like a lens of ice, Transforms and clarifies. Wet plough lands are dark as malt, Stubbles are bearded with weeds And sodden with water. Gales have taken the last of the leaves. Autumn is thrown down. Winter stands.
Poetryy
