2001
Autumn last year
was wonderful. You came here
when leaves were gold.
The nights were cold
and cuddly
when you came here.
I toasted you with toasty-tasting bubbly.
And now it's Spring
life's quite a different thing.
It's still cold
and I feel old, bereft
and grimly sorrowing.
I feel that what I feel
is hardly real...
Sensual
love is a self-inflicted theft
2002
And there came yet another Spring.
My life at sixty turned into a strangely-gorgeous thing.
The nights were cold
but I did not feel old, bereft
or grimly sorrowing -
though always I feel that what I feel
is hardly real
and, floating in the bubbles and the cuddles,
I almost forgot the feelings of self-inflicted theft.
But now I know that love is neither theft nor madness
when it's expressed by abstinence and absence.
Anthony Weir
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/season-s-greetings/
