Winter’s wrath precedes with blood splashed on the trees
And golden guilders strewn upon the ground;
There too corrupted, gentle summer’s breeze,
Erupts in gales that flays fair fortune down.
Gilt golden grain once proud, now stooked and tied,
By scythe upended, heads bowed to their fate;
The pitchfork pike and plodding wagon ride,
Now damned unto the byre beyond the gate.
White frost encrusts the fields, that chainmail cloak
Enfolds in silence, fur and feathered song;
Though yet unfettered, happy sings the brook
Oblivious to the chains he’ll wear anon.
So once again that frigid might descends
‘Til gentle Spring arrives to make amends.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.