Saturday, 27 February 2016

Late Summer of My Seasons

By William Scott

Like the year,
I am in the lateSummer of my seasons.
Full of green;
a tired green though,
tipped with brown.

The first leaves 
have begun to cover the pavement, and grass 
of Bad Heilbrunn.
Such a mass is yet to fall!
There is still hay to cut,
fruit to pull;
the hearty may yet swim in the lake.
For all this,
a crisp scent of borrowed time begins upon the air.

The Season's descent will be sudden.
The few brown leaves will turn to many,
turn to all;
with hardly a hope of notice
they will be of the Ground.

wetly obliterated under feet on cobble;
matted in grass
to be blanketed in snow;
raked and rotted.

rescued by small hands,
glued to paper and painted other colours,
or pressed between unread pages,
set up high on reliquary shelves
brought down in mid-winter’s death,
little fingers, delicate, studious,
running (amazed) over ancient lacework
of wooden veins.

some others
blown to a dry spot,
out of our use-seeking gaze.
enduring the chances of dark and cold,
will be witness to the swell of infant buds;
Anastasia trudging in her green galoshes. 

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