Lost Springs

The sun is setting over the roof tops,
Yawning with the evening shade.
A night bird chirps a lover’s song,
As its plumage begins to fade.
Somewhere above the chimney stacks,
A line of gray is silently formed.
The hills are purpled in the light,
Soldiers loved and dead and mourned.
Despair moves the naked branch,
Waiting for the Spring to come.
But in this quietude of day’s end,
It will never be for some.
The windows of the rooms about,
Stare blank as deadened eyes.
A wino on the corner stumbles and weeps,
For Springs past he longs and cries.
All the world throbs in the womb,
Of this darkened corner of space.
While humankind finds shelter in a room,
To turn and hide their face.

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour

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