Have winged their way into the treasured past,
Leaving but little in the mind to last
Of all they brought for sorrow or delight,
Ere first I stood beneath the signpost white
That marked the crossing of the ways green grassed
And neatly hedged, and knew that peace had cast
On all her robe in folds of gentle light.
The spreading trees, the cottages, the hay
Scenting the air, the shop so low and dark,
The lily-pond, a lark’s high notes – all stay
Transfixed in time inviolate. But hark –
Peace, her robes gathered, takes herself away,
For now the noisy traffic drowns the lark.
Mona’s Herald 11.7.61