Poppies in January

Oh to be young and in love again
To feel the sting of Putte golden arrows on fair flesh
The blessed sight of virgin eyes – a wee child in a confiserie

What delightful deprivation

“Ich, ich, ich,” the heart does loll restless as Summer doves
Swift is its flight to Egypt ; to some makeshift haven
In seven years there will be an encore of the vocables

How mother mind does mock the child