Jason Doyle Biography

Approaching winter, Earth holds its breath.
Trees, unweighted by life
Scratch the sky.
The wipers scrape, waving to each other.
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On a cold morning in January
I see him there
With a natural calm
Commanding the Square.
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There are too many sad poems
And poets.
Too much grinding grief roams
To and fro; it
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My mind is a lake of ripples
Caused by past pebbles
That lap on the shore of my consciousness.
She was a rock.
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“Would you not get bored? ” They ask.
“How could I? ” Was the reply,
“When there are yet words to be written, read, rhymed,
Peaks to be painted, paced, climbed! ”
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