It wasn’t just slippery leaves,
icy pavements – but bills, banks,
a big bothersome house for repair.
Counting day-by-day in currency
the cost of jam, new clothes.
Widowed years and woefully worried
should poverty knock before the trumpet-call.
Richest in the graveyard now.
Counting blessings.

Just 44 words for De’s quadrille prompt ‘Bother
– which brought money worries to mind, and my daughter Catherine’s switch from creating with words @ Expressions to helping others be creative with their finances so that the ‘bothersums’ do not blight our lives. – see The Finfluencer

Ruby-eyed July

Seemingly red suits me.
Only its deeper tones seen
best in Papa Meilland roses
before petals are full-blown.
My colouring, neither dark nor light
just tending to adumbral.
A solitary, shady sort of lady,
tropical-tempered, apassionata prone.
And honed in a hybridized way
where lion meets dragon halfway
at birth, in ruby-eyed July.

Yes I can fly, high-most where skylarks
trill top notes. Over cornfields,
paper-edged with poppy and at the end
of ribboned strings, catching the wind.
You just have to let me go.

Carrie has given us this lady in red photo as prompt for today's' Sunday Muse #155

late Summer

I do dislike Rhodanthemums and creeping summer phlox
Spreading into bone-dry entrances just built;
This beyond your Eastern unconventions. Already nights open,
Languish outside urban fields, out of a last heat.
Familiar natives could disprove
such strange ways from your foe.

As some continuum which stands above that sky
Does listen out for nothing foreign, nothing unlike
Europe ever knew, while a silence shouted loudly, and
Yet Athens to the near Celt will surrender.
Not yet there, Eurasia
Never deflowered so, before disorder.

“I love chrysanthemums and winter jasmine,
Clustering lichen-walled a century old;
That in my Western ways when days drawn in,
Grow in the farm gardens in the first cold.
Strange foreigners should prove
So homely to my love.

For all the age that lies upon this land
Seems to call out for things native, things like
Britain knew, when the tongue talked soft, and
Not yet Rome from the far Gaul might strike.
Yet here Japan
Has flowered as after plan.”

Early Winter ~ Ivor Gurney

Changing the words of a poem right round (I chose Gurney's 'Early Winter') as Lisa challenges us to play 'The Opposite Game' and Flip the Meanings