spring – Page 3 – radical druid

After a Spring Rain

Published on March 14, 2003

There at the edge of a wide green meadow,
set back just out of sight of a side road
under the cloak of an old oak’s shadow,
where the bramble vines creep out from the wood

and the fragrant wildflowers show their blooms
at the mouth of a hidden flowing spring,
their petals daubed with splashes of color
and with the delicate mist of the dew,

with the short, sweet chirping of the sparrows
echoing through the low hanging branches,
and the soft murmured droning of the bees
rising and falling with their passing flight

I shall sit on the back porch and listen
to the last falling drops of this spring rain
and watch, as the water starts to recede,
soaking into the planted beds and pots,

thinking of time as a season of change,
and each moment a small drop in the sea
that takes in all things in its churning wake
and leaves each of us just where we should be.

14 MAR 2003

A Tavern in Spring

Published on February 25, 2003

Where have the dancing ladies gone,
those fair and merry maids,
that once so sweetly filled the air?
Too soon, their laughter fades.

(It must be spring that bids them go
and seek for other haunts;
once winter’s grip has loosened on them,
they have other wants)

And so, the tavern echoes now
with silent, mirthless men
who sit and sip their bitter brews
and think of shady glens.

(It must be spring, but if it be,
this place should feel it, too,
Instead of fading with the night
like stars are wont to do)

The bard is set to sing anew,
but needs attentive ears;
for when the place is bright and gay,
then inspiration nears.

(It must be spring, the waking world,
that brings on such a need
for dancing, song and tender smiles –
Pan plays upon this reed)

Oh, ladies, come ye back again
and share your warmth and grace;
and I’ll endeavor by and by
to liven up this place.

2000

Time

Published on January 12, 2003

For some, the moments pass and they are gone,
lost in some unending chasm of space
that leaves only frail wisps that linger on
in memories that fleetingly can be traced,

and the ever-arching line of past days
stretches beyond the grasp in a dull mist;
many seek in vain along hopeless ways
to recapture a brief second of bliss.

But I, at my best, am like a river:
traveling at the speed of now, ever on,
knowing each minute eternally here;
and along some bright thread, all time quivers,
and its intervals form an endless song
with overtones that do not disappear.

12 JAN 2003

Tag: spring

After a Spring Rain

A Tavern in Spring

Time