At the end of the path
Where the grass grows tall
And the bushes come down
Right over my head,
There’s a small summerhouse
Where often I crawl
To hide from the others
When it’s time for bed.
Category Archives: Uncategorized
March
After the warm spells
Come rain and cold winds.
Skies are wet blankets
And March is miserable.
Like a young tortoise,
Without weather lore,
Caught sunning too soon,
I retreat quickly
Into the warm house.
The baby whinges
Wanting to go out,
He is not consoled
By crumpets for tea.
Judy knits quietly
Deep in the green chair.
The ball of wool shrinks
And she grows rounder.
When the second comes
It will be Summer.
March 1971
Winter
How can I describe, my beloved one,
The mountain’s glory in the morning sun
How can I tell you of the silent glade
In the snowy depths of the forest shade?
And how shall I capture for you the spell
Of the crystal showers in the frozen dell?
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
You must be logged in to post a comment.