Eliza Minnelle

Wander by the streamlets
And the paths that meander
Haphazard across the tilled
Earth and gently waving
Crests of barley and wheat.
You shall spy the chilled
Heat of summer swooping
Down from the sky to beat
Upon your brow. Thrilled
With the breeze gently hooping
Through the auburn trees
And frollicksome sheep
As they graze away their days.
But you will not find her there.

Take to the mountains
Grasping hands of the earth
Straining ever heavenwards
Sweating with snow
Covered crown of splendor
Shining in the autumn drawn
Illumination. A diffuse glow
And drawing minds to wonder
At the lofty mistique borne
On the howling winds that blow
And sing to the hilltops yonder
With hollow voice and mellow
Tone so as to placate
The peaks in the absense of her.

Into the borrough
And the quaint fishing town
Life flowing like treacle
Like the lifeblood of trees
As the seas rage against
The sandstone steepled
By endless agression. To see
Such a silent testiment
A eddying current of people
File past, just to be
Muted in wonderment
Children against the frosted
Distant sky skudding above
Reaching down. And she is not here.
 
To the buds of dawn
And the blossoming laughter
Of life in its first wobbly steps
Wide-eyed, terrified,
Joy and sapient vigor
And rich colours laid to rest
Awaken to delight the eyes
Look to the flowers in splendor
Striving ever to glow the best
And sweet perfume flies
The senses to dumfound with candor
And musical laughter
Like the gurgling of the brook
You turn, and she is there.