There is a sadness about some wisdom
That can seldom be shared:
 

It is the peace beyond exertion when the forgotten
Dark goddess become holy
Again.

There are no homeward paths, turning;
No cities or towns:
Only hills, moors, mountains
Lake, forest and stream.
 

This morning in April is cold
And I listen, hearing
The Chorus of Spring
As I wait in a quiet lane shunted between
Two traffic-filled roads.
Above, the tree-bound leaves creep
To slowly spread in a time-dance of space
I cannot normally see:

We easily forget, in distractions,
Who gave us our birth
And the suffering and blood
Which allows us this peace
To stumble forward from our childhood
To our youth.
 

I wait, sitting
On damp grass
With my feet almost crushing
A flower.
There will be warmth, soon,
After this East wind has gone -
Leaves from this Oak making shade
From Summer sun:
And in its warmth I shall forget
The stark extremities
Of the deaths I alone caused
That night.

DWMyatt