(Spanish people find September to be very sad:
they call it "the little summer of the quince".)
Somehow, the silver birches simply know.
This splendid heaven, pure refulgent blue
can not abide. The grass fronds, stiff as glue,
like swifts and grillos, uninclined to go,
are troubled by the carking of the crow.
It’s autumn, and the rains are overdue.
A corpse whose hair improvidently grew,
September is deceptive afterglow.
At dusk, a silence falls across the close:
the trees stand tall and motionless, morose:
now unobtrusive, heretofore verbose:
tart evergreens like laurel, tamarind,
immortal olives, silver in the wind,
sing “adios verano, adios!”
Categories:
uninclined, autumn,
Form: Sonnet
(The Italian wine "Est! Est! Est!" got its
curious name because 900 years ago a
German bishop liked it so much, he
drank himself to death.)
Those bishop guys in days gone by
were deep and subtle thinkers.
They knew their scripture -- and no lie -
were quite accomplished drinkers.
A German prelate of the Church
was summoned down to Rome:
his servants helped him in his search
for taverns ("home from home").
How lucky we, with S.U.V.,
and motorways, and such:
twelfth century was leisurely --
ten miles a day was much!
What matter if the sun may grin,
and forest flame viridian?
To find an inn to shelter in,
their keen concern quotidian.
Not uninclined to "give it large",
unlike before or since,
he travelled with an entourage,
this spiritual prince.
Each morn he'd send a runner off
to scout the road ahead,
to find a decent Gastenhof,
and guarantee a bed.
The bishop stout (need we point out?),
a man of moral fiber,
was quite devout (but there's no doubt,
he was a keen imbiber!)
Categories:
uninclined, humorous,
Form: Quatrain