3 POEMS by John Chance
EARLY SPRING
Young one, I know a place of dreams
And the light there is always dim
And in that light the phantoms
Of every age speak
In a voice of mist and green.
The yellow hair of young girls
Trail in limpid streams fo blue
That span a dark abyss.
Leaves at the wimdow
Nod to me - I sip the wine
Rippling at my side. An oak
Shattered with age suggests
With a dead and empty hulk
The worth of heros
To a lifeless age.
Young one, let us not long
Linger here at the brink
Of the world - for this is
Not glass not the images
Of a wanton mind - and fire
Turns to rippling streams
The waters of frozen hearts.
Let us hasten to out voice.
WAKING
the green brow of a hill
greets my eye at dawn.
i pull back the curtain
further, filling the room
with sunlight. pigeons
rise from green
and spiral high above the sun
then swarm down fleeting
a flutter of wings in trees.
ONE MOMENT
alighing in clove
the weary yellow fly
turns green