2DL

Ofttimes through arid wastes and Winter tracts,
En-crutched with crippled legs we walk,
With frowning brows confused with distorted facts,
With peaceful tongues that oft in anger talk.
Oft too, the season’s fruits decay and fall,
To leave the naked trees alone and crude,
And oft for toil, there are no rewards at all,
That like Winter sky overcast become our moods.
All the seasons that dwell within our gaze,
Arrange the fairs and crudes of living time,
Yet your fair season is sweet Springtime’s praise,
Of Summers blossoms and of its joyous rhyme,
Ere as the Sun rewards with lasting light,
Your smile like Moon delights my tranquil night.

© 19 February 75 Colin F Jones