On the sillion road in a morning walk
Paced a tree’s branches in winded brisk;
A cold Autumn’s day, a dappled one it was
In bleak December. After a frost, dew
Sat chilled on browning grass, moles stippled
In a plotted earth, a crimson sky fresh
Fiery in eastward clouds like a phoenix.
I perchance a smelling of wood-smoke,
Comes the white bone ash slow and clutching
On steady air; a crow flight forth on wimpling wing
Sweeps smooth the bow-bend wind.
How crisply sudden the quilted hills, patchwork
In a fold edged by pastures dotted with cow
And horse, voices gnawing on winter’s vapor
Off forth in a breeze, snowflakes through them
Mells white on the fringe and fray of the dirt road.
Apart wide and trodden, is anything milk to
A thought, so sighs a mind, a touch of heaven
Furl fasts a journey, I grasp at the child things
In a memory; a time can there be such
Luring to a blind man in a world which barely
Breathes? What bareness like widowed wombs.
And yet, Spring and its pleasures wait for me anew.
Copyright © 11/28/17 lance sheridan®