So soft and still the irony
Times pasture’s thrill I mean
Rosebuds then tulips
Corn on the cusp
On the turn from green
Youth was never ever lasting
Passed there in between
Here and now and casting
For the love I need to seem
Stickleback and tickled trout
The hay loft and the stream
Quiet, quintessentially without
The shout of silent lest I mean
That no one knows, or enquires
Of what I gleam
