When will there be
a winter's end?
said the robin
to its friend.
It is but begun,
said the hunter
with dog and gun.
When will the earth
warm the seeds?
Never, said frost
as the holly bleeds.
When will we be fed?
said the baby birds.
Not until you're dead,
were the winter's words.
Mark Mayes enjoys writing poems, stories, novels, songs, and the odd piece of non-fiction.
He would love one day to try writing a play. He has a Youtube channel, @hopeisthething1965, and a Substack: notes from a bungalow.