It is autumn outside my window,
But in here, it is spring.
Painfully buds push their way through the crust
And gasp, shocked at the wide open space,
The air full of longing
And the scent of rain.
Beneath my chest is drumming,
Insistent, threatening a break-out
In defiance of the slowing pace of nature,
As the trees shed their defences
And prepare for silent hibernation.
Cotton-wool-clad sprouts are my thoughts,
Cosseted against the coming cold -
In here, my nursery defies the law of seasons,
Pushing forth anxious, ambitious,
Premature children, clad in the hope
Only worn by spring.
So you're not in the "April is the cruellest month" camp then, Amber? It must be youth!
ReplyDeleteBreeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain? No, I suppose not... My vision of April has always been more like Arthur Hughes', but for some reason I like autumn best.
ReplyDeleteAh-hum. Sorry - I inferred a preference for Spring in defiance of Autmn from your poem. New growth as a optimistic response to life in contrast to the closing-down of Autumn. But which Hughes? The artist? Still, it's a grand poem Amber: thanks for sharing!
ReplyDeleteMy fault, mixed messages - I do love autumn, just not the 'closing down' part, hence the emphasis on spring here. But all seasons have their virtues. Yes, Hughes the artist - I studied Pre-Raphaelites a little bit and always come back to his 'April Love', although John William Waterhouse's Lady of Shalott is also a favourite.
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