anniversary poetry

a storm is riding on the tide
daughter, thou art come to die
and still they walked on
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
blossoms of babies
we were not many
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
why are the things that have no death
he'd even have his joke
like eagles on up high
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
my soul is a dark ploughed field
see, they return
among the mountains i wandered