And Springs and Springs
Have come and from the aged wood
New leaf and gentle blossom
Quite constant to appointment.
But you, the author,
Where do you reside
If not the apple-bough?

Its years and years since
Your lifeless body
Was carried through the driving rain
Ahead of black umbrellas
That perched like crows
To mourn our pointless way.

And yet we seek you still,
Your dark-haired daughters,
To hold us high
Above the agony
Of life.

By Lucy Norman March 2015