One hundred years from Yeats, and still I cry,
Reading old notes born out of memory,
A voice hewn sure, too strong to ever die,
A heart worn raw by endless wind and sea.
His view from crow’s nest or from mountain’s peak,
And far below calm seas or riotous land,
Or through clear eyes into the soul’s retreat,
The strength and weakness of a pen in hand.
From darkness mute, to speak with voice of light
There casting moving shadows on blank walls,
A show of angst or yet of pure delight;
A pantomime of life, to life extol.
Broad voice grown richer with the passing years,
To uplift hearts with joy, or drown in tears.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.