Somehow, I lost this poem. But I always intended it for the lovely shire of Shire of Rokeclif, Northshield, in La Crosse. Much love to that fair place.
For many long year the Pheonix has grown
And watched o’er the people here
Alas in the fading summer
For then, the Phoenix must die.
He has exploded with wings
And guarded the shire,
Full of love for the people below,
Alas that he must die.
His cries can be heard in the heartbeat of the people,
On the Fierce wings of Roacklif’s song
People he loves, and people he guards
For the will that he holds, but now he builds his pire.
When at last he lays down his head
The summer is at end,
And people gather in the Hall,
He sheds a tear as he vanishes in the ash and fire.
But anon, here he comes
In vibrant light!
Rekindled by the beacons of flame.
And that’s how the Phoenix lives!
A toast to the people of the Phoenix,
For his gift was the Autumn Rose,
For the day that he rose from the ashes—
He cried tears from which spring a rose.
No comments:
Post a Comment