Franc Rodriguez

The Birth Of A New Day - Poem by Franc Rodriguez

A bloom so auburn is the lovely essence of a spring blossom of ere,

as it blossoms into a madder red rose as if by nature it was before.

The bustling winds of the howling weald blow therefore mightily,

upon the beautiful verdure of the leaves that lain within the moor.

A cluster of sinuate leaves that lie beyond the comfort of the boughs,

is the foreshadowing there within the season of the autumn foliage.

Hence wet and damp, moisten as if to absorb the once tawny colour,

within the brittle leaves and the hardened surface of the hedge.

Fallen wintry snow there among the hummocks that bore its guise,

eschews therefore the heedful passage of the hastening winter.

And there amidst the crescent snowflakes and a heap of snow,

and a lonesome shrew that is to afterwards wend and saunter.

A nice gale blows upon the meadows soothingly throughout the day,

and the quiescent sounds of nature's wonders and intriguing linkage.

Henceforth the murmuring breezes of the whistling wind are slightly,

within the gleam of the sunset that bears its light at the corner's edge.

There within the ephemeral haven of man's eternal search for halidom,

are the dropping dewdrops of rain that serve as a residue for mother earth.

A puddle of mere water thus serves throughout the midday as a refuge,

for a lonesome and thirsty bird there from beyond the reach of the firth.

And the sundry currents that thereafter flow onward from the millstone,

soon reach the nearby weir of the moorland as one comes to draggle.

And henceforth a glint of a rainbow then hovers over the distant knoll,

with the magnificent sheen of its glimmering light there at a widen angle.

And the manifold seeds upon the barren land thus to cultivate and till,

as from nearby the succour of the moorland a windmill then turns first.

The shade of the eventide approaches as the winds blow even more,

and from beneath the boughs of the trees waits a new-born with thirst.

Thereupon a lonesome wren that gathers its twigs within the oak tree,

as if to prepare for the coming of a new season as it comes to wriggle.

To form its nest and soon to fly away within the midst of the welkin,

after the rains dissipates and the eventide is nigh as it had come to niggle.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 18, 2013

Poem Edited: Wednesday, October 2, 2013

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