Though poets wax and wane their years
On earth to verse their every whim,
Their words remain a constant thorn
A record for our future kin.
Some sing the notes of all our hopes
Or bring us crashing back to earth
Others conjure us a golden world
and tint our eyes in rosy panes.
As mine have called to sky and clod
As poets, from a gone by age;
As quills and pens have left their mark
Thus so my last, shall mark this page.
Yet my every verse was not the first
And hopefully
There are many years to come before:
The last poem.
Steven Hodgson
Orton Goldhay,
PeterboroughRead Poet's Corner every Saturday in the Evening Telegraph.Email your poems to
eteditor@peterboroughtoday.co.ukThe full article contains 161 words and appears in n/a newspaper.
