by Chris Wardle
We’re back now
to GMT’s bleak Wintering,
breeding gratitude,
and an attitude for slow abundance,
within the assumed privilege
of doubly-blessed glazing
and insulated walls, isolating.
Two nights before All Hallows’ Eve,
unseen, blind ears are gazing
through undrawn curtains
at fleeting, pre-dawn foragers,
dropping in, grazing, un-ghoulishly.
Their dark scratching,
beamishly dispatching
grins, winged and static.
However, disdainfully wilder
Kites, and Pheasants,
avoid immediate access
to this seedy feast,
and I’m shyly, slyly scorned
by languid Magpies
unscared of nearby
spherical Jellicles,
barely nodding at us both
with their brashly birthed,
omnipotent arrogance.
Then dawn,
a curtain flung open
on friendship’s recognition,
finds Thrush, Wren, and Robin,
feeding jerkily, scanning for predators,
yet accepting me,
not as one.
In and outside,
Autumn bites back
Winter’s bile.
© Chris Wardle
At age 70, Chris Wardle (Hamza) works at being happy and grateful, while writing through his second childhood with an eye for wonder, a taste for questions, and a sense of proximity to the Sacred. Beholden for the support and encouragement of the Oxford Poetry Library in improving his craft, 2024 sees his work emerging more widely in journals and anthologies.
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The Amazine Community 
Beautiful work Chris sir, always fan of your poetry
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Thanks Nani,
Glad you enjoyed being in the moment.
🙏
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