Summer ruined the medlars
While we revelled in the heat
Naked and smothered in sweat,
Their leaves drowned in the sun
And their roots suffocated in drought.
Autumn came, and we had to
Wear clothes again at night, and
Watch the incessant rain turn
Their fruit to sponge before the
First frost had chance to blet them.
Shakespeare would turn in his grave
If he had one, not at our nakedness,
But at the rotting wasted fruits,
Their shapelessness belying the imagery
He created for them in his inventions.
Winter is less than two weeks away.
The trees are empty, the horizons
Shackled by deserted stakes, while
We hide inside from the cold
That ruins us.
R, 08/12/2022, 21:28