If eager goldfinch, looping and stitching
Through Hawthorn by urgent instinct driven,
Are a crimson surge; a secretive dash;
When summer scorches, it could be me.
If a dark lake’s troubled surface reflects
The dying sun’s final stony silence...
When time seems frozen in eternity.
As late November breaks, it could be me.
If gathering swallows in late autumn,
Scissor the night’s reddened skies seeking home
And darkening eves beckon them to rest.
When shadows slowly dance, it might be me.
But if spring’s cold earth breaks the winter’s fast;
Exploding in lush green...you’ll find me at last.
Copyright © brian DUFFIELD | Year Posted 2017
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