We are leaning over a bank...
...where tides of Spring-and-Summer-to-come rush...a dreamer's paradise!
Our gardens are perfect, the weather is fair,
our bones are not yet aching from toil, nor our bare feet weary from walking...
The rural riverbank is frayed and faded
Its berth of stubble stokes fond memories
Where fronds of summers-past, brittle and jaded
Echo of bluebells bobbing in the breeze
The raw edges of hinterland and hollow
Harbor a hunger for earth’s untamed green
As fixed surrender preps the field still fallow
For barefoot dreamers stayed at seventeen
The wizened way of winter knows his business
How numbered are the days of his March brawl
Earth’s pockets primed with plumes he cannot witness
Will test and then defeat his wherewithal
The whole of nature’s girth begins to waver
Where earth is poised for spring’s flower-attack
As hope’s full glory fills faces with fervor
Like youth, still spared the jolt of looking back
© Janet Martin