A winter Sonnet and an image of the countryside on the outskirts of Belfast, where I lived prior to coming to Guernsey, after a fall of snow.
WINTER
We suffer winter, long for spring:
in doing so we wish our lives away.
Days, like migrating birds, take wing
and, how time flies: that old cliche
we know so well, is proven true.
When brave and young, we squandered time
but now, grown old, as years accrue,
such wastefulness of time’s a crime.
Yet in these bitter winter hours
when old bones feel a graveyard chill,
days are a jar of wilted flowers
to be discarded. How they spill
those sunless blooms, lovingly laid,
so transient, so swift to fade.
For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
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