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