The Thinking Poet



Spring, this festival of miracles,

Is like watching an artist at work:

Limned lines of black on white;

A wash of blue and green;

Now stabs of colour,

Bright yellows and mauves

To gladden wintered eyes.


More daring he grows:

Brush flying in frenzy,

No colour untouched;

A riot of over-statement

That shows no abatement;

Energy unbounded

Drawn from depths unsounded.


Surely a canvas to remember;

To hang in one's inner gallery of sight

For viewing in drab December

At the solstice night.