Summer’s prologue by Karen Green
When warm sweet showers of April do us soak
The drought of March is pierc’ed to its root,
And sounds of birth will echo small frog croak
As ink nights visit with their tawny hoot.
A ball of gold begins to splash the blue
And bathes dry leaf veins in her tepid tears.
Take comfort at the lack of wintry dew
And keenly throw off all ungodly fears.
The breath of spring is fast upon the earth
As tender crops unfold their bounteous caul.
No more to gather at the fireside hearth
In fields we’ll frolic now until leaf fall.
Above a swathe of wings makes melody
A ceiling to our labours on the land.
To till and plough the future’s remedy
Fits firm within the toil of brow and hand.
Do these small birds dream through the night, eyes shut?
In Chaucer’s time they slept with open lids.
Remain awake to keep outside the rut
For spring is come and we ought do her bid.