Sonnet 558

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,
Condemned there to the byre beyond the gate.
Hoar frost encrusts the fields, that chainmail cloak,
Restrains in silence, fur and feathered song;
Though still unfettered, happy sings the brook
Oblivious to cold chains he’ll wear anon.
So once again that gelid might descends
‘Til gentle Spring returns and makes amends.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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