The First Month Of The Year
A page of the ‘Kelmscott’ Chaucer
Seen through out cottage window
When the Pennines were blind with snow
Flurrying round the stones.
The fire was low when I began to blow
That single flicker to a flame,
Was I too late, I wondered, the ‘poet in name’
Whose mind runs endlessly
As fingers through an old man’s hair?
(Either way I thought of you and your being there)
A portrait by Velasquez
Seen through the months of silence, vivid
As the door I painted scarlet for our love
When the wind joined us walking the moors;
The sculpture of Brancusi’s Sleeping Muse
Seen against the sadness is more eloquent
Than the sun: there is something I would waken
Other than that ageless sleeper, if I dare,
(The way I dream of you and our being there)
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
