"Grandma, why do you write poetry?"
What answer can I give to one so young?
The understanding seemed a mystery,
As strange as light of moon, or warmth of sun,
When I was only ten short years and one. But answer him I must, this is the rule
To satisfy the young enquiring mind,
And feel someway I may be passing on
The wondrous feel in childhood that I find
Of nature, that with passing years has gone. Suddenly I start remembering
The joy, the thrill of stories told in rhyme,
The magic music of the words by Browning
And my childhood love affair with Tennyson.
Eternal bards I'll read you one more time. I try to tell my Grandson how I felt
At his age, how the love for poetry grows,
One looks at trees, at flowers, watch snow melt
Why we write our thoughts down no one knows,
A deep compulsion gently drives us on. And so I read my favourites to this boy,
He is too young to really understand
We feel too much of life - of sorrow, joy,
Of beauty, goodness, ugliness and pain-
We write it out the spirit to renew
Then inspiration drives us once again.

by Evelyn May Berrisford

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