The Fair

The sun is out and in
my limbs are out and in
head dazed, wind rattles
the leaves, light glances
on green, lush green:
summer: cold: windy

I am poor today, like a
winter beadsman in the
snow with no footwear
and no supper

fingers grip the ledge, feet
dangle - the angle of my
climb was steep - some
days the apex of my reach
is perilous

and I cannot move -
all plans abeyed, all
thoughts crooked and

what would she say, I wonder,
were she here?
don't worry
here you are
you can relax now, tools
down, take your ease

many things are hard-earned
many things are lost along the
way, many gained

there is no telling the true
abacus of it, the overarching
sum, only God knows that

meanwhile we have frail
flesh to deal with and
thoughts like merry-go-
rounds, dancing to a
dreadful tune

One Year Round The Sun
Return to Collections all
next poem