THE CRUELLEST MONTH

“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”― T.S. Eliot

Poets and Storytellers United has prompted us this week to give a poem related to the first line of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land: “April is the cruellest month”.  Here is my offering. Remember I am in Australia and April here is the middle month of our Autumn.

Winter Harvest

Standing on the brink of April
Waiting for the signal
That will send me down its yawning depths;

Poised on the fork of Autumn,
Waiting for the pallid dawn of Winter solstice
That will send my heart a-roaming yet again;

Balanced on the cutting edge of crescent moon
Waiting unmoving, for a single word of yours
That will let the sickle slice cleanly through my soul.

A word can heal, a word can kill;
Your word can make my darkest Winter, warm Summer
And what you say can make my Spring, a frigid Fall;
Speak softly, say your word,
And I will harvest either a rich bounty – or else dry, poisoned chaff.