I stand here by the lakeshore, and I smell
fresh honeysuckle as I kiss the rain.
A memory that I cannot curtail
wafts bitter sweetly to me, and again
it’s May. . . the night you came to me by moonlight.
The air was permeated by perfume
from blossoms colored innocently white.
But now it’s summer; yellow is each bloom.
When plump upon the vines, sweet berries, red,
will be swooped up by birds and carried away.
I stoop to touch a stem. How soon has fled
my flowered youth, and now this day chilled grey,
I bow in downpour like the vines bent low
while raindrops turn to tears and - glistening - flow.
For the Contest of Gail Doyle