Revision 2
There was a taste of October
in the spring soil
as the milky stalk crept
upward to sour the lilac breeze,
to lap iron water
under a jaundiced sun.
Gold, dappled by a late frost,
turned frail.
Wine dribbled insensibly as hours
blew from the clock
in wisps of pandemic explosion,
an inevitable soft rain
in this cycle of seasons—
the silent consequence of hate.
Revision
~~~
There was the taste of October
in the spring soil
as the milky stalk crept
upward to sour the lilac breeze,
to lap iron water,
thaw in the sun’s icy glint.
Gold turned frail, an early frost
under the gale's blade.
Wine dribbled insensibly as hours
blew from the clock
bringing an explosion of wisps:
the inevitability of soft rain,
this cycle of seasons—
the silent consequence of hate.
~~~
Original
There was the taste of October
in the spring soil
as the milky stalk crept
upward to sour the lilac breeze,
to lap the iron water,
thaw in the sun’s icy glint.
Gold turned frail, an early frost
under the blade of the gale
bringing an explosion of wisps:
the soft rain of inevitability,
the cycle of seasons—
the silent consequence of hate.
There was a taste of October
in the spring soil
as the milky stalk crept
upward to sour the lilac breeze,
to lap iron water
under a jaundiced sun.
Gold, dappled by a late frost,
turned frail.
Wine dribbled insensibly as hours
blew from the clock
in wisps of pandemic explosion,
an inevitable soft rain
in this cycle of seasons—
the silent consequence of hate.
Revision
~~~
There was the taste of October
in the spring soil
as the milky stalk crept
upward to sour the lilac breeze,
to lap iron water,
thaw in the sun’s icy glint.
Gold turned frail, an early frost
under the gale's blade.
Wine dribbled insensibly as hours
blew from the clock
bringing an explosion of wisps:
the inevitability of soft rain,
this cycle of seasons—
the silent consequence of hate.
~~~
Original
There was the taste of October
in the spring soil
as the milky stalk crept
upward to sour the lilac breeze,
to lap the iron water,
thaw in the sun’s icy glint.
Gold turned frail, an early frost
under the blade of the gale
bringing an explosion of wisps:
the soft rain of inevitability,
the cycle of seasons—
the silent consequence of hate.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson