The Gift
...dedicated to W.B. Yeats
Of words bereft I floundered on,
inclined to hide myself away
and shun the light of each new day,
content that they be gone.
When I could not communicate
with my true love, or satisfy
the softest twinkle in her eye,
I would prevaricate.
Then to my joy my skill infused
the sweetest of all utterings
replaced my pap, my sputterings,
no more was I confused.
If I cannot sustain the gift
for stately verse and noble rhymes,
then I will suffer bitter times,
condemned to loll and drift.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2009
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