'Rum rum trumpledum...'
When hours are made of bees and flowers
to lapse supine within love's powers,
re-clothed in green complexities
earthy banks, charactered trees;
clouds float archipelagos
and sun's a drug in overdose.
Between the songs a silence tall
stands in cool shade, regarding all,
shakes green locks and nods her head
at something better left unsaid.
When elder drifts incite the air,
a horn of memories to share,
tiniest butterfly dances out
the spaces between green redoubts,
Elysium's here.
How did we attain
such painlessness, how lose our chains?
From time to take a long weekend,
sit down with warder as with friend.
.
.........................
What's happened to the butterflies this year? Only seen very few anywhere and not many in the neighborhood. Hope it is not a widespread thing. I do not approve of the multinational agrichemical industry.
'Rum rum trumpledum
Bacon fat and rumpledom
Old saint mumpledom
Pull his tail and stumpledum...'
Soldier, from epilogue of 'Saint Joan' - George Bernard Shaw.
He gets a day off from hell for having given Joan two sticks for a cross at her burning.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
