The wind still has winter's bite, chill fangs that
Numb and tear as it slams against the hills,
Roaring proudly like a wounded lion
Circling the straggle of barren trees.
The low grounds are marshes, ancient portals
Through which the dead pass,
But here on the high ground, above
The sandy valley that challenged us as kids,
Dry earth beneath an old oak,
Where I can sit and catch breath and marvel
At this glorious rage of nature.
And between the clumps of black earth
Green shoots poke out, drawn by a sun
That teases us with a promise of spring and
Gentler days of wine in woodland parks.
But such times are a distant prospect and
There is no heat in this February light,
Its wash of gold leaf on grass-clad slopes
A mere ploy to tempt our future fancies.
I should rouse my bones and strike for home,
Not sit here contemplating on a day that is
Heir to a thousand thousand gone before and
Will wait me out a thousand thousand more,
Yet, oddly, I cannot break its thrall,
The loneliness of this woodland trail
With views across the river's plain, and then
I wonder if I shut my eyes and drift away,
Will I set down roots and live forever?
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Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...
