Tromode

Oft-times I feel ashamed, looking with clear

Sad eyes upon my life, so lightly spent,

So full of trivial nonsense, so banal,

So full of promise in an earlier year

All unfulfilled and lost in discontent ;

Sprung as a torrent, now a dark canal,

Unused and weed-choked. Let no idle tear

Fall for the slow demise of wonderment,

The fading flower foretold from seminal

Beginnings ; not yet on her mournful bier

Is Nature ; for, as this polluted stream

Held to a pause by weir seems dead, we know,

Although it fall, yet onward will it flow

With a new life to where the billows gleam.

 

Mona’s Herald     18.7.61