I do not speak of new love, though it be
The favourite food of poets down the years:
Small wonder, for it comes so easily –
The stolen glances, furtive kisses, tears
Of tender souls just started down the path
That leads through trial today to bright tomorrows;
The jealously and joy, regret and wrath
Of hurting hearts, long leavings and sweet sorrows.
No. I will speak of love that, summer-born,
Has lived through many winters – love grown strong,
Deep-rooted and protective as the thorn,
Enduring as the earth, sure as a song.
Such love stands when all else is overthrown.
The only certainty I’ve ever known.