No.22

TODAY'S POEM CONCLUDES THE PRESENT SERIES

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WHERE THE PICNIC WAS

Where we made the fire,
In the summer time,
Of branch and briar
On the hill to the sea
I slowly climb
Through winter mire,
And scan and trace
The forsaken place
Quite readily.

Now a cold wind blows,
And the grass is gray,
But the spot still shows
As a burnt circle - aye,
And stick-ends, charred,
Still strew the sward
Whereon I stand,
Last relic of the band
Who came that day!

Yes, I am here
Just as last year,
And the sea breathes brine
From its strange straight line
Up hither, the same
As when we four came.
- But two have wandered far
From this grassy rise
Into urban roar
Where no picnics are,
And one - has shut her eyes
For evermore.

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No.21

WAITING BOTH

A star looks down at me,
And says: “Here I and you
Stand each in our degree:
What do you mean to do,
Mean to do?”

I say: “For all I know,
Wait, and let Time go by,
Till my change come.” ”Just so,”
The star says: “So mean I:
So mean I.”

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THE SUPERSEDED

As newer comers crowd the fore,
We drop behind;
We who have laboured long and sore
Times out of mind,
And keen are yet, must not regret
To drop behind.

Yet there are of us some who grieve
To go behind;
Staunch, strenuous souls who scarce believe
Their fires declined,
And know none cares, remembers, spares
Who go behind.

'Tis not that we have unforetold
The drop behind;
We feel the new must oust the old
In every kind;
But yet we think, must we, must WE,
Too, drop behind?

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