Saturday, January 06, 2007
spring wears a pastel-flavoured dress,
like bright colours of crayons bled into one.
the balmy warm winds caress the skin,
as the shepherds catch sight of the elusive sun.
upon them soon were clasps of thunder,
angry clouds survey the scene.
in the corner of the shed,
lay a rose, blue and serene.
the cottagers scrambled to the roofs of straw,
some of them had raincoats, though not all.
as the rain beat down on the hoods,
one solitary rose, still going strong.
summer sunshine soon usurped the land,
'twas a time, at least here, for the harvests and cheer.
young girls and boys fall happily in love,
the men of the house hunt for game and deer.
not to be left alone was humble rain,
even as young children were out to play.
peoples and cattle were carried away,
on the days where rain held sway.
autumn brought with it voices of wisdom
and an air of sobering truth and rest.
rustling leaves pile up along,
and a good many animals were gone.
yet in the same corner lay the good blue rose,
much ravaged and half-withered but still going strong.
as the bells of the season harbingers the sordid sound of death
for most of the others of its lot.
without much fanfare the first snow falls,
the white shroud of death that covers all.
and beneath that bitter ice,
was the rose standing not strong but tall.
a soldier trudged and fell upon his knees in tears,
on this road too winding and long.
the flower hangs on as it keeps,
a hope of spring, just one more swansong.
