A Book for Bedtime (Seasons)
When Autumn leant upon a naked tree
And pressed it (trusting as a stooping man
Might trust a stick for its stability)
The Sprites of Winter rushed for company,
Killing all along the paths they ran.
As Autumn could not move away as quick,
He so was rooted to that glooming spot,
As was the leafless tree that served as stick.
The depths of Winter’s passing made things thick
And sap chocked down that tree’s life like a clot.
Soon Winter’s push took over all the land.
With white of many types—all touched was blank,
Including half the tree in Autumn’s hand.
Then arrived, uncertainly, the band
Of Spring’s green richness, breaking Winter’s bank.
When Spring was spent did Summer’s fever come,
Heating buds to bloom that blushed and spread,
That flushed to be that season’s total sum,
Their colours trumping all, though they were dumb,
And most would, presently, be left for dead.
Aft crept another Autumn, falling quick,
With Winter on his heels, not far ahead
Of unrelenting Springtime with its trick
Of making greenness poke from every stick—
Then Summer’s blousy flowings, plumply fed—
Til Autumn, stripping down the trees to spread
Their fickle leaves with crispness first, then stick
To earth a downy leafmold like a bed
Where Winter lays a sheet but not his head
And not one season sleeps for quick! their nick
Of Time is notched once more on Heaven’s stick
And each one ages like book pages flick.
Author: Damian Robin