***dying Of Time*** Poem by Ian Bowen
***dying Of Time***
Now in my grey-haired heart,
Flows the blood of seasons past.
Those pastoral beats, that once surged
In a sea of windmill leaves.
My haygold, harvest days, warmed
My cockles; all splashed in sun.
There was no chill that gripped and snapped,
When winter laced my hills in white.
Those new life days that bloomed,
Under the trees of springing light.
When I was young...not dying of time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/24/2024 9:33:31 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Wonderful recollection of past in loneliness and cold of the youthful spring time that was not dying then, Ian!