~ David Anthony ~



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Remembered Wings

Hawthorn

After a Snowfall

Tallyman



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Remembered Wings


Year after year their timing was the same.
As early summer took the place of spring
my swallows came, and briskly gathering
would breed, then raise their young and so proclaim
hope's renaissance. Each darted sharp as flame
between the earth and sky, remembering
old haunts, despite long miles of wandering.
This year I waited but they never came.

Autumn's a time for leaving: cherished things
are embers, as remembered flames burn low,
and vanish with the chill the first frost brings;
a time to grieve, though now it is not so:
never to greet those brave arriving wings
spares so much pain of parting when they go.



© Copyright 2001 David Anthony


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Hawthorn


Why are you weeping, May tree, May tree,
why are you weeping, May?
Springtime's fresh and the sun is high;
there is no blue like the morning sky,
and winter's far away.
The season's glad so why be sad?
Why are you weeping, May?

Why are you weeping, May tree, May tree,
why are you weeping, May--
shedding your tears of perfect white,
pure as sorrow and white as light,
in garlanded decay?

Is it care for times that are yet to be?
Let's look away and refuse to see:
the year is young and so are we
and winter's far away.
Thoughts like that do not trouble me,
so cease your weeping, May.
Please cease your weeping, May.




© Copyright 2001 David Anthony



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After a Snowfall


This is a quiet season; nothing mars
the earth's serenity. Above, the night
pays homage to the moon; attendant stars
hold lanterns up to view a world of white.

Beneath the perfect surface, out of sight,
incarcerated in the winter's care,
are stunted things that hardly knew the light,
like secret dreams now withered in despair.

Creation comforts those sequestered there
with hope, where all was hopeless and forlorn:
a hint of freshness, and the starting stir
of growth that promises a world reborn.

In nature as in man, a quiet face
hides winter's grief and spring's creating grace.



© Copyright 2001 David Anthony



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Tallyman

It seems no time since warmth replaced the cold,
and nature's careful plans were first displayed
in buds along the foxglove's stem, arrayed
profusely and preparing to unfold.

Tall tallyman, I know the price you pay!
Your clustered blooms that nodded to the dawn
fade one for every evening, as you mourn
the counted fall of every summer's day.

Too soon a wilder wind will come that scours
the season's bright creations, stripping bare
the hedgerows and the woodland clearings where
you sacrifice your last and lonely flowers--

still beautiful, although the best are past;
and missed the most, because they were the last.


© Copyright 2001 David Anthony


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Visit David's Website         Nature Poets home



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