Devoted to duty, as ever, I wrote a first draft of what would eventually become the following, during my Sociolinguistic class on monday - and finished it today...this is a poem for my mother, who makes the best out of heaps of snow and 30 cold ones, every single time!
"Decomposed"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, and please do not use the metaphor rotten in any context attached to of concering this poem! LOL...
Lay me down onto the mud, and in the grass
I am the frost
The stale, cold steam of winter silence
Muffled sounds of suppressed growth
Under a duvet
spring cannot pierce through
And as we all have ours to keep
A lot of feasts; arrangements too
Branches in a row, the farmers plough
Leaves of grass in line for you
My whitespread, glittering, reborn friend
And my immortal, glacial cover
A unmoving and frozen tide
With sunbeams casting drops that sparkle
on your endless surface
And as we all have ours to do
A lot of deeds; commitment too
Seeds be sown and grass be grown
I spent a summer missing you
And now as seasons change, which we shall bear
A chilliness approaches with the fresher air
The mountains closing up, the sky pressed down
My winter time, that pearly season, I will meet you there
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1 comment:
Her er litt nye "toner" - noe elegant og fint - er det fordi jeg leser det som vintermenneske kanskje...du er underfundig men du bruker ikke uforståelige symboler og derfor blir du mer begripelig.
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