Summer’s bent and turned to gray,
his heat begins to wend;
in these dog days of decline
his smolder finds its end.
Now the lad with darkened locks,
his heart born full of ice,
begins again to wax in strength
and plot the sacrifice
of the green and winsome king
whose fires consume and warm;
in the shadows, winter brews
its months of snow and storm.
From the fields, sun’s regent walks
among the first-born sheaves;
in their surrender lies his bounty.
Soon, the turning leaves
will announce his kingship ended,
and that fateful siege
when his lance will be unmended
and a new crowned liege
will ascend the season’s throne
to lull the world to sleep
through the gray and bitter months,
when the sun must creep
at a distance, as the world
lies fallow until spring,
and the Sun will claim once more
its green and leafy King.
Summer’s step is not so sure
past each year’s Lammas eve;
mere months mark the lifespan
of the king. But do not grieve:
in the womb of winter’s deep,
the cold new king will sow
the sunlight spark that will in time
defeat again the snow.
01 AUG 2005
