Her fresh juvenility
By the vibrancy and warmth
Profusion of resplendent colour
And long unending days!
Yet, afore long your vigour
Even did subside,
As life's equinox dictated
A more mellow season.
And somewhat prematurely,
Golden fires of Autumn
By the cold hand
Which heralded the bleak,
Monochromatic desolation -
The rancid air of finality
Yet strangely palpable.
The young trees stood alone, unaided
In this bleak expanse,
Their fragile vulnerability exposed
To the unrelenting cruelty
Of the elements
Which beset their meagre forms.
Alive yet stripped bare
Their stark barreness,
Of death and decay
Testament to the inevitable cycle
Many winters thence,
Bring with them a realisation
That a serene and captivating beauty
Espouse this 'season by design'.
The melancholic air and acute chill
Serve only to heighten the anticipation,
Of a Springtime
That will surely dawn;
From the hidden depths
Of the seemingly barren waste,
Tangible life will spring forth
And you and I
Shall meet again.
In loving memory of a Grandfather,
who went to sleep too soon, one January night 24 years ago.
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