Thy Alterations

Spring, you last so fleetingly
To touch thy crown upon my breast,
To lift thy warmth and vigour
Here, upon my heart. To fight and inspire.
Thy messenger, youthful Apollo,
Has long since left the grove;
The carved space held welcoming
Is welcoming no longer,
There, where brittle trees show
The scars of thy enemy still living…

Winter, with thy hateful glare,
You turn to ruin every thought,
To destruction as your mistress,
Her bare bones as old as mine.
I contrive against it, but bitter cold
Of burning snow you set upon
That sun-cast day. Briskly take
The sunlight from my life,
Replacing such a healthy memory
With gloom, a convivial tomb.

Oh, will thy alterations never cease?
Will I be cast in parallel for
Yet another eternity? Without
The presence of a sprightly mannered
Chattering-bird, my walk is slow,
My tongue is lolling in recession,
My eyes are nought but echoes
Of the flash of once they spoke;
For winter may turn to spring,
Only as often as the chill inside recedes.

The End

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