The Seasons of my Age

I walked in the new wood in the spring of my age;

bright green leaves unfurling, like flags in the wind;

ramsoms perfume strong, and bluebells gently dancing.

Sprightly was my dance then, light footed on the grass;

bright shafts of golden sun through the branches lancing.

 

I walked in the green wood in the summer of my age;

heavy blossom perfumed, bees humming loud;

sunshine overhead, humid, hot and burning.

Sultry was my dance then, seductive in the shade;

birds muted shrilling, berries’ colour turning.

 

I walked in the golden wood, in the autumn of my age;

chill air on the leaves, setting them a-rustling;

bright pheasant flying, rousted from his cover;

fungus all a-sprouting, cream & rust & red.

Hurried was my dance then, rain clouds gathering;

seed heads full to bursting, summer now is dead.

 

I walked in the naked wood, in the winter of my age;

branches bare & barren, the sky of ochre cloud;

there the golden promise lies, a carpet all of rust.

Slow & halting was my dance then, a memory of grace;

all the joys & sorrows, all the dreams & dust.

 

I walk among the tall trees, in all the seasons of my age;

remembering sun & rainfall, the curses & the blest;

the mountains I had climbed, the sea shores I had waded.

Eternal is my dance now, amid stars & moonlight, darkness & the dawn;

In all the changing patterns, not a memory has faded.

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