Say When

Say when she asks the summer sun

or olden oak its' heavy limbs,

When trilling morning song is heard

through cotton fog and linen air.

Say to her fields of lavender,

inchoate colour sketches spread

and raining bathos in the vale

or huddled leaden on a hill.

Say when the winterwoods bedeck

her bridal white habiliment

and aging winds reach to the floor,

where spreads a shimmering, crusted pall.

Say as her loins are thrust with sap

on threshold of her atelier,

her flood of wonder and verdure

and nought but brief, quixotic aire.

Say when the arbours of thy breast

hold nothing from her fervent reach -

not all the longing of thy day,

nor frolic of thy brilliant nights.

More poetry by Les Blough

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