The earth may ring, from shore to shore,
  With echoes of a glorious name,
But he, whose loss our tears deplore,
  Has left behind him more than fame.

For when the death-frost came to lie
  On Leggett's warm and mighty heart,
And quenched his bold and friendly eye,
  His spirit did not all depart.

The words of fire that from his pen
  Were flung upon the fervent page,
Still move, still shake the hearts of men,
  Amid a cold and coward age.

His love of truth, too warm, too strong
  For Hope or Fear to chain or chill,
His hate of tyranny and wrong,
  Burn in the ******* he kindled still.

June's furious face
has loosened slow hedgerow's pace
to a racing growth.

Moors dance non-stop
in June's ferny-curled blanket atop
heather's firm hold.

Old granite walls meant
to dagger through June's fervent
****** cannot resist.

Lines of division melt
in June's dashing intention
to cover all signs.

Let man or land stand
and June's hectic battering rams
will recognize neither.

For nature's law throws
human owner-ship overboard
as June's storm bursts.

Nothing can match June's
thirst for first place as the Queen
of Burgeoning.

The Edge......

This morning I saw light lift the hue
of night-dim lavender
while rivulets fell as blue mist
down tall iris stalks.

In dawn's drizzle I noticed sun kiss
the shivering lawn
as honeybee-hunger nosed through
late blooming roses.

I watched wet dry on petals of shiny
chrysanthemums and
warming rays open the daisy-eyed
corners of coming day.

As light splashed more morning at
and round garden paths
a curious gladness took me to the
edge of poetic rapture.

This loaf I bake was once golden wheat
which harvested,
threshed then ground
made flour from ripened ears of blessing.

This cheese I churn was once milky froth
which with countless
turning first creamed then set
to hardened thickness of clotted health.

This wine I drink was once fruity grape
which trodden made
from flesh musty liquid
that time changed to nectar-rich pleasure.

This thanks I give was once humbly said
as harvest custom
so feasters could not forget
that abundance appears when heads bend.

Rock's chill in early Spring shadow
keeps leaf-buds folded
while greenery's frocks, still frozen
in fuzzy stiff mold,
reveal growth's frigidity goes
hand in glove with cold.

As ice-wind becomes zephyr stone's
rime loses control,
frost melts when pairing takes over,
plants' ****** role
exchanges gender, smouldering
with intent that shows.

May's rising sun resurrects tones
of need-coloured gold,
male and female lustily hone
livened desire, hold
hands, steal kisses and gene-loaded
feel blood embolden.

As time turns to love Nature owns
the chase will not slow
for copulation re-proves growth,
appearing sans snow
stirs fur, feather and human bones,
to what all are prone.

The heat of togetherness sewn
into weather owes
its success to overflowing
need for warm clothing
for cold never turns bread to toast,
or so I am told.