The View From A Window

By John Fleming

A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished –
Deceives with all the colours of a
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little

Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Imposing upon with demands and
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome

And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared…
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled –
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields…
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
That indivisibly conceals…
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
Dejectedly hang…
Each draped aside of the cold

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