October 6, 2014 by Michael Graeme
Monday morning black as death,
First rain in ages pours as if from taps
Through gaps in gutters,
Baked long in the summer dry.
Cold wind at my elbow
Begs with menace.
She is gone, she is gone,
He cries.
There’s glee in that cracked old grin,
Glee as old as sin,
And he dances, kicks the bottles,
And the bins,
Sends them skittering.
His wizened hand, clawed,
Tugs my coat for coin,
And gloats his wicked work to see,
This awful morn,
The taking of my Persephone.
My summer love, my faery Queen,
My comfort and my rest,
Turned out into this foetid dawn.
Torn clouds, the ragged weeds,
In which she’s dressed.
Where is her beauty now?
He brays.
Her dance of summer all disarrayed,
Her flowers flattened in the dirt.
Now, he says, now you’ll pay,
And dance more to my funeral dirge.
Winter darkness drawing in,
He crows how she must once more
Make her bed with him.
His hands, cold ice and vile to touch.
Yet heed me well, I know this much:
She will not smile his joy to see,
Not like she has smiled for me.
So be gone, beggar, from my door,
Do your worst,
Let wild wind roar, and river burst,
Let oak tree creak,
And chimney moan,
And each day turn me out from home,
To sit in stagnant traffic washed,
By filthy winter storm.
And I shall remember the lingering kiss,
The loving touch, and how each gift,
With summer grace she showed.
A jewel each, a glassy bead,
All sunshine filled, and each the seed
Of her return to sow.
Source:
http://ift.tt/1utwBho