The will of love
clears my path,
as stroll beneath
its shade,
amid meadows
of distraction,
beside lakes
of longing,
I am ever led
to reach into
pounding crash of
shoreline breakers.
And thence, bear
witness over the
turn of tide.
And now, the
season too, readies
to turn it\'s back
upon bleak winter.
Yet, here, within
these ageing bones,
springtime
holds no allure.
Life itself, a poetry
which writes
within us,
where it will,
as it will.
Much beyond
sentient bidding,
it bleeds
from our
very hearts.