Seasons

There are Sun seasons,
Seasons of the heart,
Seasons of hope and despair.
Sometimes winter comes
In the spring of youth.
Even children can be
Blighted by despair.
The roots of hope
Are slashed.
The subtle feelings
Of connections severed.
You stand alone,
Or so it seems.
The garden of childhood
Burnt and dry.
The flowers
That were there to pick,
Shriveled,
Stems cut
To bleed and die —
Or poisoned
By some foreign agent.
Unless —
A caring watcher
Stays the flow,
Brings water,
Laves the poison
And sees value
In a life that
Was not wanted.
And I
Do not know
The way to bring
Back the sense
Of being part of things,
Of having links,
And meaning.
I only know
It is a season,
And can pass.

And things come
That tear
The heart and mind.
Perhaps a child
Is torn
From off the family tree.
Such loss that
Bleeds from you
The sap of life
And will.
Or you lose
Your Man or Woman.
And what is life
Without them?
Without the quiet
Moments of gaze,
The touch of hands
And sleeping company
In the night hours.
All gone.
Swept away
Into the past.
One day
The turning point
Around which revolved
Love present.
Love past.
Today — misery.
And yet,
The gain,
The loss,
Seen from the vantage
Of countless years,
Are seasons.

And when the years pass,
Carrying you into Autumn
And age is upon you
Like a cloak,
Turning your body threadbare,
Even if the spirit
Still shines its light,
Then is the time
To remember
How season follows season.
Winter finally fades
To spring.
Spring passes too.
And so the seasons
Of your life roll on,
As surely as the planets
Round the sun.
And this whole life,
With all its
Shades and sunshine,
Rains and dry,
Is also but a season,
And will roll on.

Copyright ©2002 Tony Crisp