Poetry

A wind from the North Country
blows through the tapestry of my mind.
Like flowers in the wind,
I sway like a silver birch.
Winging high I soar though the sky,
a bird of tell tale feather below.
Ah, a rose with a tinted past
a tear of dew on each new petal.
Shadow of sky I see
a big yellow eye that warns me
Spring has fallen by the way side
Summer warms each small bed
sleep eluded the dreamers head
days hark of summer sandwich paste
eaten down in gulps of haste
gone are the winter winds
replaced by summers warm rays.

Ah, our rose with a tinted past
born out of a refuse tip,
born with buds pointing skyward high
to catch the sun through a cloudy sky.
Born with an anojistic air
the dark clouds of heaven see you there.
Rain dances on your petals blight.
Sky thunder roars
storm of shadows pass overhead
wind of tears, tears and shreds,
the petals from our roses head.
Sky of blue, no clouds of night
looks down at the sorry sight,
head limp, beauty gone
sadness of glory light
no longer see the sunlight.
Petals sweet, insect head
food for nature’s bed.
Earth dust shower still
life is short to fulfil
day - night passes a solemn breath
for our tinted rose’s death.



13 June 1978