David Grey "that poor Scotsman--"/Poet Andrew.



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCXXXV)


How dew lies silver in the valley, pale
Shafts through these naked boughs whose shadows' dense
Grey draws up silhouettes upon the sense
Of green lawns' soft new carpet to avail,
Half winking through the ghost of mists' detail
As trees' gaunt skeletons stand silent hence
In sheer calm's fragile note of light suspense,
And I could lose me here where dawn's eye'd hail.
But, no.  Just take a fleeting gander, poor
Though thinner notice be, and while we two
Put on the eggs, make porridge, toast, or fer
All that I do, as Dad makes gravy, view
A Saturday?  Roll 'cross my tongue what were
Sae almost hallowed ere, and say we knew?

01Apr17a