A poet dreams of the beauty that Spring lends

to the happiness of the heart, of sunken meadow

covered in wet, early morning dew and the sturdy Oak

stretching out beyond the low laying damp mist

that grips tightly to the birds sodden searching for respite

in the glow of the shadow haunted Sun

and smiles.

 

The poet, like the farmer, blissfully trades his future stock

for one roll in Summer’s golden lawn, the stray piece of straw

acting as inspiration for the longing of everlasting

days in which to thank that the midday bloom

is shadowless and glistening with opportunity across acres

of white scorched Earth

and the call of Autumn, of sadness in parts, is a lifetime away.

 

The man who looks for the beauty in a single word

to describe Autumn’s rage, the fading attraction in

the dying yellow leaf,

understands that the season is soon passing

and the words are bound by cold, frosted apologies

and the fingers, once nimble, once full of imaginative muscle,

are now but sad stories in which to dwell.

 

Winter passes by and the poet feels dread

for the lack of affection and warmth

that once was felt as the Spring day

stoked the fires and the splendour of Time

knew no bounds, now surely deserted

in bleak Midwinter’s agony

and the last breath of spirited thought.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015