For Jethro, and his love of all things renewing
Spring’s herald hangs voiceless, faceless, silent.
Now the trumpet beckons a new season,
Its first flush of life so soon sadly spent,
Energies engaged for other reasons.
Dried tobacco ponytails tumble out,
Like clay-coloured flowing rivers in flood,
Elephant hide desiccated by drought,
Parched vessels now carrying no lifeblood.
Former golden glories display no more,
Replaced by ripening verdant globe.
Proud bringer of youth delivers its spore,
When, from youthful dresses it does disrobe.
I wonder, quietly like drifting clouds,
On an epitaph for dear Wordsworth’s shroud.
Please do leave me your thoughts and comments, in praise or constructive criticism, I appreciate them all and will reply.