Array ( [sid] => 184150 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Purple Clock [time] => 2017-05-07 05:57:28 [hometext] => Flowers and Life [bodytext] => By a clock we do not see,
a tick that we hear not,
decades in, centuries out,
the Winder, ne’er failed us, forgot.


Oh, gorgeous purple peonies!,
long sewn by hands now dust,
color still to now they last, hence ever
strong ‘neath crumbling fence
to bloom long ‘ere I’ve passed.

In journey life, they travel with me,
or I with them?, more true, ‘tis seems,
my brilliant hue of annual tick
winds down my lovely dream.

Renew, renew!, wee purple bairns;
planted fifty years ago!
oh my! would I to carry me so well,
though I did, pray tell,
when youth took less from me.
Oh, Life, you peal still!,
you do, though hasten not to ring my bell,
for life is grand, I live in thrill.


Now, eleven Olney purple popping years,
gifting me exploding flowered song,
at last again they spring to sing,
not for the past, oh no,
but what the future brings. [comments] => 5 [counter] => 191 [topic] => 27 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => NaturePoetry ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Purple Clock


Purple Clock
Date: Sunday, 7th May 2017 @ 05:57:28 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: invierno
By a clock we do not see,
a tick that we hear not,
decades in, centuries out,
the Winder, ne’er failed us, forgot.


Oh, gorgeous purple peonies!,
long sewn by hands now dust,
color still to now they last, hence ever
strong ‘neath crumbling fence
to bloom long ‘ere I’ve passed.

In journey life, they travel with me,
or I with them?, more true, ‘tis seems,
my brilliant hue of annual tick
winds down my lovely dream.

Renew, renew!, wee purple bairns;
planted fifty years ago!
oh my! would I to carry me so well,
though I did, pray tell,
when youth took less from me.
Oh, Life, you peal still!,
you do, though hasten not to ring my bell,
for life is grand, I live in thrill.


Now, eleven Olney purple popping years,
gifting me exploding flowered song,
at last again they spring to sing,
not for the past, oh no,
but what the future brings.

This poem is Copyright © invierno


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