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Rusty Broadspear

Total disorder, disorientated, disarray,

Disappointment, depression, dismay.

Without plea or grounds to cause a fuss

He buries deeply, averse to discuss.

Firm, true, steadfast, rock solid roots

Of love; now saplings, bearing real fruits.

Temperature’s fell, exposed to the cold

But still shine with trust, as if put on hold.

He awaits confined, in love, resigned

To images enshrined within his mind.

Another chapter, book, venture waged

Unseen, unread, as a hand turns the page.

Holding hopes high, refusing to cry,

Patience his virtue, whilst wondering why.

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