Black Iron Gate

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Black Iron Gate

*

In the back yard all alone I sit,

Warm Spring sun, softness of breeze.

Trusting friends will come for a visit,

Hearing the squeak of that gate, oh please.

*

Seedlings float by brushing my cheeks,

I dream of running, oh wouldn’t that be great.

Thoughts float by, I’m wading in creeks,

Better still, I hear the squeak of the gate.

Hopefully they’ll come, friends and class mates.

*

I try very hard to keep a smile on my face,

In my mind, I can go just about any  place.

No one is coming, in the warmth of this day,

I’ll stay positive, I’ll read my book.

At the black iron gate, no more shall I look.

*

Day is near end, what more to hear, what more to say,

The black iron gate did not squeak, didn’t open, nor sway,

There were no friends to come visit me today.

*

I traveled down many paths in the woods,

Climbed mountains and waded in brooks.

I did all of these things and many more,

My adventures come from all my books.

*

Another rising, another day I will again in my 

back yard wait,

Sitting under colored trees, crisp air telling of Fall.

With my books in my lap, near the black iron gate,

Indeed I have no doubt, soon my friends will call.

*

                                  Eileen “2011”wheelchair (1)

While yet we wait for spring

2-21-2011 10;03;21 AM

While yet we wait for spring

While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry
And blackening east that so embitters March,
Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,
And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;
Already in glimpses of the tarnish’d sky
The sun is warm and beckons to the larch,
And where the covert hazels interarch
Their tassell’d twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.
Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid
A million buds but stay their blossoming;
And trustful birds have built their nests amid
The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing
Till one soft shower from the south shall bid,
And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

Robert Seymour Bridges

(1844 – 1930) was a British poet.