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To the Rosemary
In Gallipoli, brooding o’er love lost,
Not one, but many, ’cross life’s narrow straits,
Onto each a memory, each a cost,
Each a veiled peril discovered too late.
Summer love squandered by false opportune,
Beholden to my ego’s foul advice,
To advance myself before my commune,
’Til my youthful appetites be sufficed.
Remembrance hath I for lost puerile pride,
Which winter’s gale reminds me my starkness,
Onto Her alone my shame I confide,
Only She forgives my former darkness.
By passion’s e’er changing winds nigh harried,
By her carried, my petaled rosemary.
-Q-
@WindsPoetic