A Poem in Long Meter

 October Thoughts on Life’s Last Season

"Old I do wax, and from my weary limbs
Honor is cudgel'd. Well, bawd I'll turn
And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand."
~ W. Shakespeare, "King Henry V"

In northern countries the year ended
At village square of ancient times
In roaring pyre of homage splendid
To fête the sun in darkest climes

The trees of note, herein, whose fame
Graced peaceful homes in Grandpa’s day
Their twice-burnt leaves are first aflame
Upon the tree, then on the clay

A scion of the sun, the fire
From flourishing mid-summer’s fruits
Marks now the low’ring path his sire
Takes to his end, in cold pursuits

All life begins in darkness’ sea
We wait, as all, to grow again
Before the rising potency
The Celtic New Year does begin

Green as a new leaf, so man must
Begin his year by singing bright–
The leaf full spread, in Dog Day’s dust
Is dull with work, his rest at night

But little matter what success
The circling of the wheel may show
At last the brilliance, stupendous
Is promised most at letting go

And what of us, each one a page
Upon a tree of snaking limb
Do we as leaves, clinging in rage
Rattle ‘gainst the cold wind’s whim?

Or be a blazon–own, at least
Our dwindling sap, a telling sign:
Heedless splendor, fall, a feast
For roots enduring, thine and mine

So let us be. How life is spent
When all is done, results are said
Regardless how the twig was bent
The new growth lives upon the dead

What use now for aged plotting?
Cudgel’d cutpurse? Not for me
To cheat the youth; nor crafty grasping
But blazing, lead, our destiny