The Spring won’t come. A dun bird shifts
his leaden wing and preens the quick
unplanished sky. The rain holds back
above the glacier’s mirrored lac.
Sheet pinned to sheet clouds sullen drift,
Mountain’s iron foot shores the split,
Dis’ black horses elude the bit.
In white re-dressed the peak sounds back:
The Spring won’t come!
Persephone irons out her shift,
Twists off her leaden ring and quick
folds up famine’s sheet; sighs, turns back
to Somnus’ smile ingrained with lack
of sleep pinned to sleep, beauty drifts,
the Spring won’t come.
by Bonnie Mcclellan copyright 2011
listen to this poem here:
Love you. – Dad
AN ITALIAN TALE
Spring never comes
On the Lac Majeur
As it always stands there
Under shades of the grey
Climbing rains are drawing
Shapes of past futures
While clouds of wisteria
Lead the paths of fools and warriors
Whatever time is playing
Masters of the rhythm
Unslaved to their smile
Keep the eyes open on the void
Thank you Gilles-Marie,
yet but the leaves are thinking
round, green thoughts.
the web cam
keeps an eye on them.
btw, this makes me think to this song (with great lyrics):
mort shuman, before he came living in france, wrote a large number of tunes with doc pomus for a certain elvis preley; here’s another of his french songs:
Enjoyed the music…grazie.