Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.
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Comments
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Her wording is very revealing.
She speaks of even flies being a failure, how mornings dissipate. Words such as "wither," and "thin," reveal how fragile life is and how quickly it can fade.
The gloominess of this poem is penetrating. How remarkable that she could write on such a cliched topic without making it cliche at all.
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