Wherefore and Whither
WHEREFORE AND WHITHER
Now you’d know where fate’s flowing if you abide with me,
and wonder where we’re going, what could provide the key?
The future you’d be knowing, how will life fare for thee?
but all’s in vain, this trowing, when we lack liberty.
Ringed golden debt is owing, yet you remain too free.
The fused frustrations growing attack you, fair chérie,
for Time’s swift furrow’s showing no longer twenty three.
Though sun each morrow’s flowing, it sets too speedily.
There’ll be no plights bestowing, lest spite spite enmity,
though sorrow may be sowing, we haste to heresy.
Away you should be stowing all memory of me...
3 October 1975 For Annie B
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JUNE MOONED NORMANDY
Near sand dunes gently rolling in June mooned Normandy,
on starlit strands went strolling salt scented, silvery,
while sightless eels swam shoaling, silk ribbons on the sea.
Soon midnight peals rang tolling to twelve from one, two, three,
till roosters rose, cock-crowing, we talked on tenderly.
Pine trees in gren groves growing most gnome-like seemed to me.
Brine breeze the billows blowing, froth-foaming fretfully –
sent spent spray wavelets spewing, coast-combing ceaselessly,
‘neath tent-grey egrets mewing, ghosts roaming silently,
repined, our steps pursuing in restless jealousy.
3 October 1975 For Annie B
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BEFORE THE FALL
Love was for me framed in eternity...
Whispering and wooing, in our sleek youth happy,
where air and water seek dry sand,
there far from others of the band,
fair hearts held high, her hand my hand, together linked were we
The doves of love were cooing in Cupid’s comany;
above our heads bright stars did shine,
spread out in soft light milky line,
shed silver on the sacred shrine of her divinity.
Through time the scene reviewing, with no uncertainty,
thread perfect wed, divine design,
rose vision sworn, reflection fine,
whose face sublime fond Earth did sign to grace humanity
We cared not, to undoing, we dared ‘to be’ to be,
before rash fires of passion fanned,
before, as ashes, pyres were panned;
ere separation, forced or planned, diverted destiny.
Is love, for thee, still certainty?
3 October 1975 For Annie B
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poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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