My Sunday Poem … # 14
This is a poem I wrote many years ago when I was living in the wilds of north Norfolk. I’d joined a small group of mostly well established local authors and artists. Most of them could quite literally write (and drink) me under the table. Occasionally I came up with something half decent.
To Spring
Spring
Sweet lady of the flowers
Waiting on the golden gates of Summer
Queen that lends thy beauty to the earth
Out of Winter’s bleak and lowly rags you came
A child of the mist and cold
And though each being in time created
Calls thee by a different name
They love thee with a single knowing Soul.
1951 Club 