Today's NaPo prompt was from the first line of TS Eliot's 'The Wasteland' - 'April is the cruellest month' - asking us to write a poem about which month we find the cruellest. There are a few contenders for that hot spot with me (!) but only one poem came forth:
September
sow and reap, do or die.
Time, slowed and stilled until now
begins to tick with a furious routine.
Do the flame-licked trees, I wonder, feel regret,
mourn for leaves they must lose?
Everywhere, the fire in their branches an effigy
of what is lost.
The year before glimmers, a mirage.
Back-lit glances and good intentions
choked by September's fisted grip.
A month of endings, false beginnings,
new chapters born as nature dies.
Summer, love; take your final bow -
nothing is spontaneous now. Winter
the only certainty, a whisper away,
the endless miles of cold to come.
I lost you in September
and leave you there, your memory
a riot of delight and decay.
Something beautiful
gone, suddenly, like the sun.
Pious change the new order
of shadow-smoked days.
Always, the peal of bells
putting an end to all play.
The dying embers of the year,
the ashes of what could never be.
Back-lit glances and good intentions
choked by September's fisted grip.
A month of endings, false beginnings,
new chapters born as nature dies.
Summer, love; take your final bow -
nothing is spontaneous now. Winter
the only certainty, a whisper away,
the endless miles of cold to come.
I lost you in September
and leave you there, your memory
a riot of delight and decay.
Something beautiful
gone, suddenly, like the sun.
Pious change the new order
of shadow-smoked days.
Always, the peal of bells
putting an end to all play.
The dying embers of the year,
the ashes of what could never be.
Gorgeous poem -- thanks for posting. I, too, am trying to do the prompts and it is a motivation to follow you.
ReplyDeleteThank you Elizabeth! Lovely to hear feedback :) I missed a few days but hope to catch up at the weekend.
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