oh! nature, hast thou changed thy face
for time has played its wicked hand
whereby once youth was fast in place
the aged ocean’s swept over sand
from days long past I thought eternal
my mortal frame will ne’er be saved
this debt for which was presumed vernal
becomes forthcoming by the grave
so to accept the years will sigh
as they tread with practised guile
across my footpath by and by,
and meet them gladly after a while.
For I, like all men, have my hours
as do the birds, the trees and flowers.
flowers
Poppies
who needs the poet
when we have fields of poppies
they are verse enough
Woeful Wind
woeful is the summer wind
which wakes wild poppies’ heads
from narcotic dreams kind
that held them in their winter beds
Forget-Me-Nots
love, remember me not
in any stone that may bear my name
regard instead the wildflowers
blue and bold woken by the rain
that falls across the graves
in showers rich of summer’s air
for nothing of me shall remain
save the forget-me-nots growing there.
Rhododendron
her colours blind
beguiling in the May
but as all beauty
at first ethereal
turns ephemeral
when petals fall
and wither to dust
in sacrifice to summer’s coming.
Dama De Nocha
welcoming darkness
to make love under moonlight
so blooms Cereus
Chrysanthemums
gold September here is come
and glow now late chrysanthemums
that lift their heads in pilgrim prayer
to butterflies’ angelic air
for in this day is echoed June
and hopes which Autumn left too soon
to harvest for the coming night,
yet still bloom summer’s last delights.
A thought upon a little yellow flower
here among the dying leaves
a single evening primrose breathes
and lifts her face as if to say
one can find gold in fall’s decay.
Poppies
their satin petals
parted to morning’s glories
the sun and the rain
Surrender
when red poppies bled
white roses laid down their thorns
as they surrendered
the blighters rock 