At the Cross Roads

A poem by Fay Inchfawn

There I halted. Further down the hollow
Stood the township, where my errand lay.
Firm my purpose, till a voice cried (Follow!
Come this way -- I tell you -- come this way!)

Silence, Thrush! You know I think of buying
A Spring-tide hat; my frock is worn and old.
So to the shops I go. What's that you're crying?
(Here! Come here! And gather primrose gold.)
Well, yes. Some day I will; but time is going.
I haste to purchase silks and satins fair.
I'm all in rags. (The Lady's Smock is showing
Up yonder, in the little coppice there.)

And wood anemones spread out their laces;
Each celandine has donned a silken gown;
The violets are lifting shy sweet faces.
(And there's a chiff-chaff, soft, and slim, and brown.)

But what about my hat? (The bees are humming.)
And my new frock? (The hawthorn's budding free!
Sweet! Oh, so sweet!) Well, have your way. I'm coming!
And who's to blame for that? (Why, me! Me! Me!)

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