So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years!
I have
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days
We rooted them out of the ping-wing
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet
The languid painted ladies used to
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten—strange—but quite
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time of the mild
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know!
I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy,
I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.
Due to the mild climate in Jamaica (the authors birth place) the red (flame Heart) trees he refers to are in beautiful full flower during December.
The winter there is simialr to Spring in the northern hemisphere.
Von
