The dreams of youth foredoomed to die
The tears upon your cheeks would dry.
The fruited-thorn your flesh had torn
And, now, your only son was gone.
Watch how the liveried flunkies bow-
He’d fight for king and country now.
Though born to work the hard, cruel earth
He’d prove the measure of his worth.
As free as any man from birth-
Our land secured upon his blood.
In time, they’d take it all away
A handsome profit wool would pay.
The passing years have left their mark
On youthful form – on willows’ bark
Yet, if a poem or two might live
What little comfort that might give
The crowning glory of mortal man
Exalted –or for ever damned.
When others’ words of grace and form
Have with the leaves of Autumn gone
On Mount Parnassus, amid swirls of mist
What more could some poor mortal wish?
Elysian dreams, all-vaunting thoughts
Have never bread and butter bought.
While kelp was gathered at the coast
Silence walked the moorland like a ghost.
The dew of the heather –a trusted friend
Would bring some solace at day’s end.
When memories only brought more pain
You’d toast the God of Love again…