Tasting Life
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A zephyr skipped along, midday,
Rose-daubed my cheek in ides of May,
As if to goad, and giggling, say -
'My lad, this moment's wasting ...
Such zest waits for the tasting!'
The sea was donning Sunday's best,
With shimmered pearls upon its breast,
Its voice reminding from each crest -
'My lad, the hours are wasting ...
Such wine awaits the tasting!'
New heather danced atop the hills,
With white and pink Chantilly frills,
And sang to me with plaintive trills -
'My lad, the day's a-wasting ...
Such fare waits for the tasting!'
The creeping dusk, swathed in the moon,
Enchanted, blue, each dale and dune,
Then, tender-voiced, began to croon -
'My lad, the night-tide's wasting ...
Romance awaits the tasting!'
Oh, months and years go far too fast,
As dreams are swallowed by the past,
But time still beckons, clear and vast -
'My lad, each breath is wasting ...
There's life left for the tasting!'
There's LIFE left, yet ... so TASTE it!'
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2021
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