Some bonus word-play-time as I waited, and waited for my later than usual,
'hungry, happy supper-clan'...
The ink that fills the poet’s pen is siphoned from the
sigh of trees
The noise of boys, the tender yen that draws a mother to
her knees
The happiness of home-sweet-home where dreams and Duty
intertwine
The pitter-patter of bare feet on dusty lanes, the rain-pearled
vine
The warm handshake, the birthday cake, the books that
make us laugh and cry
The carriage of an afternoon drawn by Percherons of July
The silver sea, pink peony, blue end of dusk, pale husk
of moon
The crimson gong that slips beyond the swell of field and
fell so soon
The old town-clock, the leaf-strewn walk, the
dandelion-snows of May
The aftermath of winter’s wrath, a cup-of-tea-wee-holiday
The lilt of lark, the grit and spark of lusty fellows in
their prime
The slower gait and kinder wait of those who wear the
kiss of time
The hummingbird, the landscape blurred beneath a brush of
morning mist
The gentle dad, the mother glad, the child laughter and
freckle kissed
The newborn babe that makes the cup of joy run wild and
thrills the tear
With wonder for pure innocence and perfection of heaven near
Mischievous tot; my, my, what jot your darling
naughtiness inspires
The hungry, happy supper clan, God's faithful hand, gardens,
camp-fires
The rise and fall of voices after darkness dims the
motley crew
And if all else should fail, my dear, never the ink of ‘I
love you’
© Janet Martin
