Été

The flower petals fade to brown,
and slips away the slender crown,
their teasing done, their task complete
to lure their loves with liquids sweet.

They give away their guise of youth,
the painted face displays the truth:
the swelling stem where swims the seeds,
whence life responds and later breeds.

For fall will come, then flying snow,
then spring returns and sprouts will grow.
The seeds beget the summer reeds;
again the plants beget the seeds.

The honeybees have hunted sweets
and gorge their combs with golden treats.
In heavy hives they hide their young.
Intruders scatter, tried and stung.







The holts are full in hale leaf
that shimmer bright in sharp relief
to umber boles that bear them up
in jumbled coombs that gently cup.

The cattle feed, increasing strength,
to wallow fat from winter's length.
Their flanks once lean are firm array,
and farmers grow the fragrant hay.

With summer's feast the sated calves
will challenge ice that chokes and halves,
till sun returns with supple lawns
through numbing years like nights to dawns.

They work their farms or winter comes
to kitchens lorn of loaves or crumbs.
Though day is long and dawn is near,
the winter nights are waiting drear.







The fruits are swelling, fresh and sweet,
and grains arise in granting heat.
The summer rains descend and clean
the castle yard of king and queen.

The babe created bold adults
to learn her needs; their love results.
The mother gives, her mood beguiled;
the father chafes to fend his child.

The king and queen proclaim a feast
from woods to halls, from west to east,
to celebrate with salvers laden
their daughter's birth, their doted maiden.

The kitchens fill with cooks and bakers
who swim in bread and sweets by acres.
They drain the calves and dress the hens;
the pears and grapes they pick and cleanse.







The thorps are home to three and ten
reflective wives of flawless ken.
Bespectacled, both spry and aged,
the fairymothers, famed and saged.

The message bearers marched to meetings
to fairywives with favourred greetings;
the parents bid, to praise their child,
they join the feast where joints are piled.

They met with twelve in magic skilled,
in simple homes of subtle build
upon the eaves of pensive boughs,
befriending fawns that feed and browse.

Their houses meld with holt and mounds,
the branches rafter, bracken founds,
and learn the secrets lost to man
of moon and stone and moods they span.

To bless the daughter blithe in youth
the wives will wend to weave their sooth.
The twelve will join the twain in joy
to feast the daughter fair and coy.


The thirteenth fairy, thistle-voiced,
who lived by marshes, loathsome moist,
was overlooked by all who spoke
and never asked to near the folk.

She lived alone in loosened stones
where ancient mountains utter groans,
where springs survive the spiteful glens
to feed the foul and fetid fens.

She sulks alone in sullen mood
and meets her guests in manner rude.
Neglected woman, gleaning hate
and scorning love in scourging state.

No message comes, no monarch calls,
to welcome her to happy walls.
She stands without in stealth and hidings
of laughing cheer and lavish tidings.







Within the walls the actor preens,
reciting lines in lyric scenes:
the Bride arises bringing heat,
but slaying darkens City fleet.

The drummers tap and dancers spin;
the harpist plucks the hairs so thin;
the braying pipes and brassy horns
applaud this best of pleasant morns.

The daughter's eyes adore the light,
the silver lamps like snow in night,
and copper sconces kindled gold
vermilion, orange, and madder bold.

The lavender and lacy skirt
is twirled in song and twinkles pert.
Her girdle glints in green caress,
and ribbons plait her raven tress.







They bless the daughter blithe in youth,
the fairywives affirm their sooth.
They chant their spells to charm the child
to know a future, noble mild.

Eleven gave felicity,
and charity and chasity;
they vaunt her faith and verity,
her honesty and amity.

The slighted fairy slithers in
beside the crib, and sly her grin.
She spat her curses, spewing hate,
with viper tongue she voiced a fate.

'I leave her youth, then life is short:
at sixteen years, when suitors sport,
a spinning wheel will spill her blood
till life departs your lovely Bud.'

She storms away with stony eyes.
The final fairy faintly vies
to modify the morbid gift;
in lieu of death her life will drift.