Martin Robertson

Now and Then

Another Summer

Roses in the hedge

scattered prodigally,

eye and heart filled.

Poetry?

This year…

beauty is not enough,

truth too difficult,

too many questions begged,

undefined terms—‘love’.

I fall silent.

Death one would think is

a fact one can’t disguise,

especially violent

death.  But have I learnt

to look it in the face,

the disfigured face?