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