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poetry by lou sid linesman - on life, love & politics
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Love
So back to the nursery-bed where I lied
And all my words fell when they quavered and died
And settled as dust...
In which I can now write,
As soft dirt...
Where my finger can gently push into moist earth...
And form a sweet hole for the seed of my mind
To re-find the one, the only true place for its kind...
Then brush with a tip to recover the berth,
And then leave...
To the wind and the rain and the frost and the sun
Or whatever may come...
And to do its own thing...
In the hazard of Spring
© Lou Sid Linesman, 2006. All Rights Reserved.
