I'm made of you and you and you,
my father, mother, sisters too;
and all the mall of who is who
that I've encountered in the brew.
So who am I, alone, a sigh,
a thigh, a cry, under the sky?
Nobbut a wing, a passer by,
a thistledown, a do and die.
Not so, for though my story's made
of you and all the eggs you laid,
I grew and grew and plied my trade
my own songs rang , beat out my shade.
And over what should new roads ride
than we who dug our pits and died?
YOU ARE READING
Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
