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. - Les  Blough Axis of Logic   More poetry by Les Blough