Jerrold Prothero Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

For my wife Rita.

No, Not the Flowers

No,
Not the comfort of old habits, though I’m settled in my ways;
Not the couch beside the window, where my little thoughts arose;
Not the glory of the orchids, nor the colors of Van Gogh; 
Not the books of two millennia, nor the solemn masks of wood; 
Not the kettle as it’s warming, for tea, with cheerful wheeze;
Not these;

Not evening, descending, to cloak the little town;
Not the Anchor of antiquity, where once the Winston sat;
Not still the drums of Wednesday, as they circle in the Square;
Not the trains that bear a nation by the beat of Johnnie Brown’s;
Not the bands of ragged rhythm, ‘neath the splendor of the stars;
Not the wind within the walkways, waltzing with the trees;
No, not these;

Not the morning’s glowing freshness, 
Not the murals upon the walls;
Not the café at the corner, nor the bucket lunch of cod;
Not the egress-blocking egrets with their white and bobbing heads;
Not the walk across the drawbridge, to the flag beside the sea;
Not the tide about my ankles, nor the sand that warms my feet;
No, not the flowers beside the breakers, nor the petals on the breeze,
No, no, not these, no, not these;
No, none of these I’ll miss, across the weary mile,
No nothing shall I miss, except your smile.

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