Winter Walk

A winter's day of pure delights:
The crisp, cold air on nose and cheeks;
In clear blue skies, the brilliant sun,
Hangs low against the treetops bare;
See frost-white vistas, frozen streams,
And smoke like rods from chimney pots;
The wintry-pink of evening light,
The glass-still river sliding by.
Keen walkers, layered from the chill,
A welcome warm, a wholesome meal
Find at the inn at close of day.
Such joys as these no equal find.

Copyright © 2012 Desmond Hilary

Nothing

Actually, this is one I wrote ages ago, when life was very different.  I found it in the loft this week and thought it worth publishing here.

A man alone
Soon finds time
To question his being —
And why life find him so entrancing
As to share him with
No-one.

Company gone,
Solitude returns
Bringing only grief
Like a jealous friend
Grieved that he can love
Another.

She has nought to say —
Save that awsome silence
That cries out
In pitiable anguish,
Why can you not cherish
Me?

How can he love
One who gives him nothing
But, constant, reminds him of
What might be
If only there were
She...

She who is warm,
She who is tender,
She whose love throbs and thrills.
She whose beauty dazzles
The noon-day sun and stills
All.

Yet here there is pain
At wasted love
In endless time soon over.
Having smashed us on its reefs
It casts us on its shore to die
Alone.

Copyright © 1980 Desmond Hilary

On the Passing of a Friend

So vital, so large,
Full of energy and fun;
So fierce, so gentle,
Intelligent and strong;
You knew how to live.
We wanted you to stay
But your suffering was
Unacceptable;
And so you had to leave...

Copyright © 2010 Desmond Hilary