There are days when greys
vault us leaden in the knowledge of our errors:
a sorry stream of sorries said too late,
a stubborn bunch of mouths turned down. Fate
is a stony heart weathering
its own hard contours.
And what have we to do with spring
or blossoming?
For all that, in the dull a bird will sing,
pink buds will pump themselves ajar
white flakes will trickle littering,
solace or not - a feck for solitary fate;
for all must share one gate;
and many step the stile you linger by
under a puzzled, grey and unforgiven sky.
..............
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The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
