Seasons
In the sweet September of the world,
Life was simpler, shorter, often brutal.
The pastoral world of peaceful sheep
Bucolic living illusive and futile.
The artists seldom told the truth,
Their patrons preferred their world scrubbed clean
And in their castles - liveried minions
Out there peasants neither heard nor seen
In the cold December of the world,
When life is longer, easier, more complex
An urban world replete with asphalt,
Life sure - always what each one expects.
Politicians seldom tell the truth,
The voters preferring comfortable illusions.
And in their cubicles – electronic drudges
Out there, pre-ordained conclusions.
One day the world will have its Spring
All new again, life full and overflowing,
A world pastoral, rolling on forever
Life unending, ever onward going.
Then summer and the seasons roll,
Life always ever
growing, greening
As time will carry us along until,
Time itself no more has meaning.
© 2017 by Tom King
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