Spring which has its appeal in ghosts,
Youth, resurrection, cleansing of the soil
And in the dormant roots already considered,
Stirs, with the sharpening of branches,
Challenges heart to do that which it cannot,
Sustain overwork, overthought, overlove.
It clears a path for hope: reinstates
Faith, which we had too easily omitted
With death, in the caustic months of the year.
Summer proclaims joy, laughter before its
Arrival: and deceives us into malice
With its nonappearance. It suggests
A romance that we have not received,
Sunny balconies in the mind: the seldom
Forgotten perfect island summer with its
Warm haze on fresh, flower, and hide:
The blossoming of their structure, fragrance
And appeal, from their own root recorded.
Autumn comes strutting in like a cockerel
Red, blue, yellow, and brown. It disintegrates
Our purpose of singular thought: destroys
Relationships: and cuts the sap of pride
Ruthlessly. Those who survive retain one heart
And voice. Yet Autumn with contrawise motion
Shields the creative mind with covering of leaves,
Settles and matures the dormant growth which will
Reappear, under the hard skies of spring.
Winter exceeds the year with impunity:
Devours us of all greed: and freezes
That residue. It upholds that which is not:
Which is, the blaze of summer biting
Into our nature for a future reappeal.
Winter intones loss of all things:
Is the next step to death which is loneliness:
Comfort and warmth to be found around our own
Heart and grate, within the steel ribs of this age.
by Lynette Roberts
From Modern British Writing (1947), edited by Deny Val Baker, p.130-131
Picked up at the Magic Door in Downtown Pomona