***dying Of Time***

Rating: 2.7
Now in my grey-haired heart,
Flows the blood of seasons past.

Those pastoral beats, that once surged
In a sea of windmill leaves.

My haygold, harvest days, warmed
My cockles; all splashed in sun.

There was no chill that gripped and snapped,
When winter laced my hills in white.

Those new life days that bloomed,
Under the trees of springing light.

When I was young...not dying of time.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Ramesh T A 29 December 2009
Wonderful recollection of past in loneliness and cold of the youthful spring time that was not dying then, Ian!
0 0 Reply
Carol Gall 29 December 2009
when young life is endless wonderful write 10
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