By Benjamin Basham
The frosty crone, her raiment white,
Has fled with all her frozen blight,
The virtued maid, with flaming sword,
Has purged her from the green, spring world.
The grassied blades are thrust back up,
Young saplings from the ground erupt,
The trees display their leafy shields,
And force the winter frosts to yield.
The trees gain strength, uphold the air,
The land soon turns to summer’s fare,
Golden rains embrace the land,
And clear birdsong the season’s band.
The willow maid, her raiment green,
Has danced to growing lands unseen,
The mother bold, with sheaf of gold,
Has pulled the world into her fold.
The trees stand strong as mountains high,
Warm breezes through the air do fly,
The land is sown with fields replete,
As young and grown come near to meet.
The trees, they bend ‘neath greying skies,
The wind is full of aging sighs,
The trees now paint their leafy shields,
As men hone hoe to go to fields.
The mother kind, her raiment gold,
Has locked the gates on summer’s fold,
The stooping gran, with hoe of grey,
Has hid the summer suns away.
The fields unearth a mine of grain,
The land is drunk with autumn rain,
The calming winds have been set free,
And wave the grass for all to see.
The trees resign their coloured shields,
The soil greys on stagnant meals,
Starving wolves bite at the sky,
And cattle, maples, children, die.
The gentle gran, her raiment brown,
Cannot in any land be found,
The wretched crone, with claws of ice,
Has gripped all with a deathly vice.
The land lies dead beneath the moon,
Ghost-whispers does the old crone croon,
The trees are corpses, stooping dead,
All living from the world is bled.
The world crawls back from darkest pits,
A flame in bright’ning skies is lit,
Cold frosts fall fore greening ground,
Life, at last, again is found.