Colin F. Jones

SEASONAL PLEASANTRY

As snow would not a summer morning make,
I would not in your presence make thee pure,
For like a fish I’m tethered to the lake,
Wherein from your fine chalice you’d not pour,
Your favourite thoughts that urge your lips to smile,
And tease a sparkle in your splendid eye,
To gaze obliquely upon my brow awhile,
That I would so be humbled by thy sigh.
Fleeting things oft rife with history play,
A lingering game repeating yet anew,
The same delights that will not fly away,
For how could one in love take leave of you.
‘Tis indeed the snow that melts in spring
That is so smitten by summer’s comforting.