Mute melody of seasons sweeps
In phantom lays from unplumbed deeps
As over snow-bound woodland flows
The cello-notes of yester’s rose
The dark is like a lid that lifts
And spills a myriad of gifts
Where nature weaves a wonder-world
Of buds and leaves and trees unfurled
Is Time a mime with velvet shoes
That tiptoes through stone-tongued adieus
Where one hand gives the other takes
While one hand heals the other breaks
Sometimes it feels like Time’s embrace
Leave claw marks on my upturned face
But when I look all that I see
Is a stranger staring back at me
The mind is like a matador
It needs to fend off bullish roar
It needs to dare to talk with ink
That rocks the reader; makes them think
Ho-ho, the bold young poet scales
Mountains still scored with starry trails
Where life has not kicked him too hard
Or left him licked and battle-scarred
…and they are still spared the regret
Of paths they have not taken yet
Where they are still too green to hear
The wake of leaf-song in their ears
As over snowbound woodland flows
The cello-notes of yester’s rose
And all around the poet’s feet
Lie tatters of life, bittersweet
© Janet Martin
