Wet October calls forth a crippled Spring
Under the shaky ceiling of our skies,
The lame season saddens everything
Retelling all the worst of Winter’s lies.
Explosive joys lie dormant in the blood
Wrapped like the leaves in crampt uncertainty,
Fires that would heat the heart, bestir the bud
Are banked and smoulder with a cold pallidity.
Our faltering love echoes the Spring’s excuse
Pleading ignorance of the New Year’s birth;
Our souls uncertain, wilfully obtuse
Stare wonderingly at Life and Passion’s dearth.
There’s nothing new in losing something old,
Though Winter’s past the days may yet grow cold.
This posting is exclusive to the Bowalley Road blogsite.