Driving to Southampton
this bright November morning.
picking out gold pieces
among leaves it ‘s burned
to earth colours:
burnt sienna, ochre,
sombre terra verte.
The feathered silver birches
and fanned corals of the oaks
defined in raw umber
by a draughtsman's pen.
A line of poplars.
wearing the tatters of summer's green
on gaunt graceful arms
raised to the duck-egg sky.
turns back its dragon head,
responding to the spiral winds
that play in the high blue spaces
where it formed,
changes and transmutes
I drive down the motorway.
Janice Windle's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Driving to Southampton by Janice Windle )
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