Season's Change

Here's a link to "In a Summer Garden," which, on reflection, has very little to do with the theme of "Season's Change," but what the hell... It was written in August 1980 and posted on 4 June 2012. (By the way, in the final stanza the rhythm requires that the Greek word Agápe be pronounced Agapé. Not having any Greek I am confused because the Oxford English Dictionary - before the wokeist luvvies got hold of it - gives the latter pronunciation.)

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      The seasons change,
      The body aches,
And there’s no joy in ale and cakes;
      The great estrange
      From warmth to cold
Shivers the flesh like shoes un-soled:
   Hallows’ Eve for some
   Comes with deaths and wakes.

      Plans neatly plumb,
      Ambitions great,
For one who lived beyond the gate
      Collapsed to crumb;
      And fates and loves
Now ripped and stained like floor-dropped gloves
   Fester in remorse,
   Tapping sorrow’s drum.

      Thoughts become coarse
      And limbs are crick,
Eyes wander, guilty, with a tic;
      Like frost on gorse
      Sins' razors cut,
Selves parlay but can only “but”:
   Wary, bodies limp –
   Judged, no longer trick.

      And grits are skimp,
      The urbs decays,
Its self-myth stripped to un-gemmed clays,
      Grey-veined and crimp;
      Exhaustion’s moan
Finals what now will be ungrown:
   City walls unkept
   Shadow thief and pimp.

      Now Time has crept
      To winter’s brim:
Will riddling Birth or roisters’ whim –
      A foot which stepped
      Through crusted snow –
Scuffle a path that men might know
   Warmth, spring’s flaring hum;
   Truth, that’s nature’s limn?

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© October 2021

"Autonomy"

From famine to surfeit. Here's a much fuller treatment on this theme, called "Urbi et Orbi," written in December 1979 and posted on 11 December 2011.

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   Christ Cross-ly cauterized the world then Rose:
His challenge opened Heaven’s gates: we so-and-sos,
   Now choiced, should dash to Him upon our toes;
Instead we game the odds then freeze in hell-gate’s snows.

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© August 2021

Three Ages

In a very early poem, "Four Answers Above," written sometime in 1973-76, I broadly covered (oh dear, I've split an infinitive) the same theme albeit from a much gloomier point of view. And I was only in my twenties! I posted it on 23 December 2013; it is linked here.

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Even though the young have all the luck,
      Their wits, their strength,
Sheer stamina that goes to any length
   To gain an edge, to earn a buck,
      They still end up stuck.

Come midlife and there’s little left to suck
      And see: there’s bills,
Alimony and redundant skills:
   You may try a final dodge or duck,
      But you still end up stuck.

Of age I’m speechless: you survive the ruck
      And climb age’s heights
But find mere sickness, frailty and spites:
   Death will giggle, its hand will pluck –
      And you’ll know you are stuck.

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© August 2021