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Spring days are in evidence; but this day
is like turning pages, so easily
the light green leaves are flipped by, the eye’s gaze
neutralised, everything hangs showily,
repeated, like a worn out melody.
I can’t recall feeling this way in spring
before, as if some reality check
has kicked in, the world crisis deepening
of failed finances, the vanishing speck
of hope that sputters, here attempts a wreck.
But from this view, achieve a vantage point
slowly, the gentle persuasion of trees,
the abundance of blossoms, to appoint
a vision, the lake’s broad palette to tease
reflections, the sky light and clouds release.
Finally, I become convinced, as though
a conundrum has been resolved, I know
not the debate, from childhood it was so,
the pure unreasoned happiness to glow,
and all the shallow world of cares laid low.
Ah but yet I lie – there cannot but be
the gnawing inner worm of misery,
not even faith unwinds entirely;
the name of Jesus, exceptionally -
yet I forget - dispels reliably.
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