Hailstorm - edit3

[dukealien]

Hailstorm

Edit3


Just after lunch I took a rake and swept
young, healthy clipped leaves off my summer lawn.
Some clung to twigs and branches, neatly drawn
along as though alive, formations kept.

A sentimental person might have wept
on seeing vivid, growing life a pawn
to hail-shot sleeting down before the dawn
in fusillades and volleys while I slept.

But when I’d raked no leaf bag came to hand -
in summertime there’s not a one in store
to shroud those cut-down leaves still green with hope.
So there they lie, untidy fallen band
of brothers shot down with no autumn soar
or death-proud colors; widow-trees must cope.


edit2


Just after lunch I took a rake and swept
young, healthy clipped leaves off my summer lawn.
Some clung to twigs and branches, neatly drawn
along as though alive, formations kept.

A sentimental person might have wept
to see such vivid, growing life a pawn
of hail-shot sleeting down before the dawn
in fusillades and volleys while I slept.

But when I’d raked no leaf bag came to hand -
in summertime there’s not a one in store
to shroud those cut-down leaves still green with hope.
So there they lie, untidy fallen band
of brothers shot down with no autumn soar
or death-proud colors.  Sorrowing, trees cope.

edit1

Just after lunch I took a rake and swept
young, healthy clipped leaves off my summer lawn.
Some clung to twigs and branches, neatly drawn
along as though alive, formations kept.

A sentimental person might have wept
to see such vivid, growing life a pawn
of hail-shot sleeting down before the dawn
in fusillades and volleys while I slept.

But when I’d raked no leaf bag came to hand -
in summertime there’s not a one in store
to shroud those cut-down leaves still green with hope.
So there they lie, untidy fallen band
of brothers shot down with no autumn soar
or death-proud colors, summer grass their scope.


original;

Just after lunch I took a rake and swept
plump, healthy green leaves off my summer lawn.
Some clung to twigs and branches, neatly drawn
along as though alive, formations kept.

A sentimental person might have wept
to see such young, green, growing life a pawn
of hail-shot sleeting down before the dawn
in fusillades and volleys while I slept.

But when I’d raked no leaf bag came to hand -
in summertime there’s not a one in store
to shroud those cut-down leaves still green with hope.
So there they lie, untidy fallen band
of brothers shot down with no autumn soar
or death-proud colors.  Like trees, we must cope.

(earlier edits under Spoiler)