Albert Camus (1913 - 1960)
There is a death rattle in this season’s throat,
old branches rub their bones together
in the killing fields.
Leaves have turned through gold to bitter dun,
& rustle their chapped-lip whisper
in pleas unheeded.
Here is a thirst for hope that can’t be slaked,
a dessication of xylem, choking fitfully
on wind-burn & dust.
Out of Standard with Izy Gruye, asked for the underbelly of Spring. Your Spring is my Autumn.
Sharing with G-Man since I said it in 55!