It’s funny how the winter came, and went,
with autumn colours flowing from your eyes,
as if your tears reflected summers spent
in mellowing before the darkening skies.
Now spring subverts the sleeping earth’s intent.
Too soon the promise, and too late the blame,
for what we said, but barely ever meant.
It makes me wonder why we never came
to realise fragility, and what it means
when two are one, both fighting off the dust
that threatens us – our somehow might-have-beens,
which dance us to the end of simple trust.
Those colours in your eyes run on and on.
It’s funny how this winter’s come, and almost gone.
If you've any comment on this poem, John Bevan would like to hear it.