Reading some Psalms this morning, and
Then a poem by Edward Thomas, who
Died on a WW1 battlefield.
And then the note about Robert Frost, and
The Road Not Taken.
A joke for his friend, Edward Thomas.
Who could never quite decide what road to take.
And then would sigh.
For want of taking the other.
Melancholy is the mood sneaking around in my mind.
A gentle sort of feeling, a quiet sadness, not quite so sad:
Things come, and things go.
And roads are taken.
And young men die in the mud of ancient battles.
Roads to take no more.
Such is life, as it unfolds.
Like some kind of spring flower.
Only to dry up and blow away.
Having done its critical thing.
To produce a seed, in hope.
For another day.