Wordsworth's Shroud

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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,

From an engorged ripening verdant globe.

Proud bringer of youth delivers its spore,

As from youthful dresses it has disrobed.

 

I wonder, quietly like drifting clouds,

On an epitaph for dear Wordsworth’s shroud.

◄ Myopsida Palmatum Atropurpureum

Garlic 18 ►

Comments

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Graham Parker

Thu 6th May 2021 15:19

Thanks for all the likes folks, they are most appreciated

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