SEASON
The silent scent of buds new-fallen,
Leaves as tainted embers of tomorrow –
I search the peace where eyes so burned might
Sigh, to ponder never more upon a tear;
Sweet darkness bred as light awakens,
Terrified with morning’s mist, love’s visage
Of a crop dew-burnt and fossilised
Into the memory of a dream to come.
July 1977 (as amended)
© Michael G Reid 1977-2011