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By Les Blough
Wednesday, Apr 8, 2009

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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