Here’s one of my favourites…<\/p>\n
Finding the Keys <\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n By Robin Robertson<\/span><\/strong><\/b><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 The set seed and the first bulbs showing. The trees are full of handles and hinges; Buds tick and crack in the sun, break open *<\/span><\/p>\n The small-change colours of the river bed: The rock-rose in the waste-ground spill of birdsong. Flowers, all *<\/span><\/p>\n That woody clack of antlers. The dawn light through amber leaves the next day to empty stars. *<\/span><\/p>\n Under a sky of stone and pink the blackbird. The winged seed of the maple, Here’s one of my favourites… Finding the Keys By Robin Robertson \u00a0 \u00a0 The set seed and the first bulbs showing. The silence that brings the deer. The trees are full of handles and hinges; you can make out keyholes, latches in the leaves. Buds tick and crack in the sun, break open slowly … <\/p>\n
\nThe silence that brings the deer.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nyou can make out keyholes, latches in the leaves.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nslowly in a spur of green.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthese stones of copper, silver, gold.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfinding some way to bloom. The long<\/span><\/p>\n
\nturned to face the hot sky. Nothing stirs.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nIn yellow and red, the many griefs of autumn.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nand the trees are lanterned, blown<\/span><\/p>\n
\nSmoke in the air; the air, turning.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nfaring in from the north and promising snow:<\/span><\/p>\n
\nIn his beak, a victory of worms.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nthe lost keys under the ash.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"