-- The Season of the Poet --

John Herlihy

I do not suffer the undue luxury,

Of those poets who hail from Southern climes.

I suffer from another kind of luxury,

When aiding my Muse in composing my rhymes.

Some poets slumber amidst the peace of shade,

Reclining by soothing rivulets amid verdant grasses.

The trees’ foliage allows them the harsh sun to evade,

While shadows creep stealthily thru highland passes.

No doubt, in slumbering, they awake into dreams.

Their imagination flows forth, ready with feathered quill.

To write of butterflies, fireflies and honeybees it seems,

The beauty of their surroundings infectious, inspiring at will.

Enchanting song-birds sing melodies they from Heaven stole,

As they soar blissfully through the trees on feathered wing.

The warbling stream accompanies the music of the poet’s soul,

As the heart of the summer’s day allows his spirit to sing.

In Northern climes, my brief summer can hardly claim to exist,

While I shed my winter attire as in the enjoyment of a dream.

Spring rains and autumn’s colorful foliage allow hope to persist,

As the breaths of summer’s breeze bestir verses with some sheen.

I strive to take comfort in the ravages of winter’s hoar frost,

My verses tempered by the peace of snow found in every lane.

Winter’s mantle a rough cloak laid down by blustery wind gust,

As wet snowflakes and icy sleet belt hard at my windowpane.

My hour of inspiration awakens to the sound of logwood fires;

The cracks and spit of the burning flame evoke an air of mystery.

Thru the darkness, I hear the echoing bells of local church spires,

As ash and smoke of the burning fireplace rise up thru my chimney.

Small wonder I feel certain the rush of my thoughts and fantasy

Will settle onto the parchment of my mind like stars at twilight.

Knowing each season offers ambiance to explore its inspiring mystery,

As the aging poet struggles to write his verses into that wintry night.

True summer’s flowers have died; autumn’s foliage turned yellow and gold;

Nature’s winter now accomplished with the landscape’s burial in snow.

No one can escape the brevity of summer’s freshness or winter’s deathly cold;

Hopefully, my verses will endure the ages, as winter twilight offers its glow.

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(c) John Herlihy 18 April 2020