The Last Winter Solstice

There are poems to write;

there are wrongs to right;

there are battles to fight,

brutally, whilst duty is done,

and a dragon's curse undone,

and a lady’s hand finally won.

The summer sun shyly slinks;

the harvest moon wrily winks,

and hence winter, winter at last --

and not a moment too late!

Now I raise my cup and wait

with a broken, empty glass.

This is winter, unhindered

the coldest day of the year;

but, Ah! summer so near –

for the Spring is growing wings

and the cold is growing old,

in the last winter solstice.