Old Lady Poem by Roy Ballard

This is the time of Michaelmas blue daisies,
of frosts not far ahead and a late sun,
of a small, grey lady pausing, slowly walking,
who loves the long, blue daisies,
the late sun and the frosts not far ahead.
So she comes singing past the church and talking.
She's scattering her verses, one by one.
Like dust they dance the long, reflected trail
that glances off each casement in the sun.
They join with frankincense and galingale,
the smoke of silver censers, swayed and spun,
with sweet flag, cinnamon and lemongrass.
Too old, these casements, to be worth the mending,
they yet flash sunlight to a distant pass
where one who watches reads what they are sending
and learns her songs which never have an ending.