Within the seeming greyness of a weary world,
Amongst these leaves that swirl around my head;
Where one lies curled and browned within
The unfurled palm of my weathered hand;
Gnarled limbs release the crumbling seraphin,
As lines crease to count the years we sold
To times, beyond this ancient Wold
Within this hardy, ancient wooded land,
A piece of which lies there now in my hand;
Beyond the bold lined avenues of guilt,
In which we build the guilded lily of deceit;
The dried and hardened pods split and spill
On wet and sodden ground, as yet unspoiled;
While rocked seasons merge and days grow cold
This grey sky reflects her inner state, she whispers
"I wish it wasn’t so," but knows the time for questions
Has arrived; to temper grief that overshadows me,
As I reflect the sorrow of that greater ‘She';
Who rains her tears upon my puzzled brow,
Her smile reduced to nothing but a frow
Author notes
The time for questions has surely arrived, as Winter has truly slain Summer in England this year and drowned her like Ophelia
Comments
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i remember summer being pretty wet too then, rains and then more rains, seemed all we got was rain. a good poem.
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double post
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I love your descriptions and visual imagery usage, glad I came back to read more. True message in this piece as well, how much rain fell over the course of the summer? I know Ireland was hit extremely bad as well.
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thanks for your kind comments. I think we have had about 3 dry days in August. Now parts of the UK have been hit by some serious flooding again. It just hasn't been a summer at all this year & seems to be well and truly over now! Thanks again
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