Remote cottage in a blanket fold
of purple hills in spring
a gem beneath a sky of blue and gold,
a peaceful, quiet thing.
Summer lazes where the spring has been,
a fragrant, scented cloak;
then hills, from purple, change to yellow, green
and russet-brown and oak.
Autumn passes by this lonely site,
and cold the winter breathes
laying down her shroud of silver-white
on autumn's dying leaves.
Remote cottage in a blanket fold
of white awaiting spring;
warm beneath a dying winter cold
a peaceful, quiet thing.

Powdered face with tired eyes
grey lids showing through the "lies"
in fantasy you wander far,
dreaming who you were and are.

And hung upon a wicker chair
your cotton frock and underwear.
And on a tray, a stubbed cigar,
some cigarettes, a chocolate bar.

Beside the barn a hothouse glass
flashes, and across the grass
green water sparkles in the pool.
And at a tree where I sit cool,
the boughs above me softly creak
and whisper as old memories speak.
Grey visions swim with things undone;
and resolutions, one by one,
crowd my conscience, long disowned;
and scenes forgotten, fears postponed,
return as if they were today
- and stronger in a curious way.

In the market by the poultry stand
I saw him, peeping-eyed,
with his lop ear and his funny nose
and lots of straw beside.

I passed him by and slowed a bit;
then, halting in my stride,
I turned again to look at it,
and all the straw beside.

Moving on a yard or more
I met old Thomson Hyde,
went into the Bull and Boar,
and sat down there inside.

I saw him in my mind's eye clear,
as clear as if I spied
him lying by the counter there,
and all the straw beside.

On old Thompson's bicycle
as fast as I could ride
I hastened to the poultry-stand,
"How much the pup" I cried.

But though the words came from my lips,
all my hopes had died.
For there was only a piece of rope
and a heap of straw beside.

The grass is black, the hills are afire;
and in the distance there is a spire
peering through the pall of smoke that fills
the ending air with choking soot, perilous
today, harmless tomorrow for none will know
the fall of death as no wind will blow.

The sky is grey and where are the clouds?
Nobody knows when the time is for shrouds.
What is the day, where are the men?
Perhaps it is night and the moon has gone.
Perhaps it is day and the sun is not on.
The grass is black and the hills are afire.

When you die, you do not "pass away;"
You "pass on."
For, on earth you are "passing by"
en route to somewhere,
not far away

Pity the young who may not stay,
who deeply care
everywhere,
who shall not know a yesterday.
'Ashes to ashes'
is a must;
gases to gases
after the dust.
Pity the young who may not see;
keen their sense
of the expense
of disagreement by the free:
bitter words,
hissing thoughts.
Dying birds,
empty forts