Evelyn May Berrisford
"Grandma, why do you write poetry?"
What answer can I give to one so young?
The understanding seemed a mystery,
As strange as light of moon, or warmth of sun,
When I was only ten short years and one. But answer him I must, this is the rule
To satisfy the young enquiring mind,
And feel someway I may be passing on
The wondrous feel in childhood that I find
Of nature, that with passing years has gone. Suddenly I start remembering