© roy ballard 2012


Old lady

This is the time of Michaelmass blue daisies,
of frosts not far ahead and a late sun,
of a small, grey lady pausing, slowly walking,
who loves the long, blue daisies,
the late sun and the frosts not far ahead.
So she comes singing past the church and talking.
She's scattering her verses, one by one.
Like dust they dance the long, reflected trail
that glances off each casement in the sun;
they join with frankincense and galingale,
the smoke of silver censers, swayed and spun,
with sweet flag, cinammon and lemongrass.
Too old, these casements, to be worth the mending,
they yet flash sunlight to a distant pass
where one who waits can read what they are sending
and learns her songs which never have an ending.