4. A Poem — The War Of The Seasons

AN ORDINARY LIFE OF A SEVENTY-PERCENTER.

Interlude: A Poem — The War Of The Seasons.

I don’t remember the actual occasion when this poem took shape in my mind but I can reconstruct the typical scene quite clearly. It was at Seven Oaks while living in the Headmaster’s  House when I would have been about sixteen or seventeen. It was late Autumn and I would have been sitting or lying in the grass beside or in front of the house (as I often did) enjoying the last rays of the setting sun and feeling the chill of Autumn in the air. I read a lot of poetry in those days, mainly from a book in my Dad’s bookcase, ‘LAUREATA’, subtitled ‘A Book of Poetry For The Young’, which I still have on my shelf. Looking at it today, it is amusing and a bit touching to read the inscription on the title page in my sister’s handwriting at the time she wrote it:

Mr. H. W. Sutton

bought in an invisible date

Read by H. Winnie Sutton on 1936 date.

Winnie is my sister Toni. She hasn’t been known by her given name since she was in the army during the Second World War when she was given the new name by her colleagues in the SAWAS (South African Women’s Auxilliary Services) on Robben Island.

I hadn’t intended blogging the poem (I don’t know if it will stand up to the critical attention of the poets among my readers) but our one daughter thinks I should include it in the record because it does reflect on who and what I am –  and I do need some space while I write the next issue of my life-story, so here it is. Our other daughter doesn’t like the word ‘yestreen’, says it’s not in the dictionary, and she’s right but I had to invent it to get the rhyme with ‘seen’ — poetic licence!

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The War Of The Seasons.

Tonight the dark falls sooner than yestreen

The air is fresher ; stars more clearly seen

Guarding the silver sickle moon on high.

The sinking sun with blushes paints the sky

And snares the clouds with beams of crimson light

Afraid to leave the world to cheerless night

And so deny Summer his last stand

To save the world from Winter’s frosty hand ;

Lest all be lost and Summer slink to rest

And leave Jack Frost to do his icy best

To freeze the world which he near scorched to death.

Thus fight the climes, with hot or icy breath,

And all their cunning strength or bitter guile,

To rule the world (lying silent the while

To see the end of this seasonal fight.)

But see! – the fight is o’er ; the sun’s last light

Fades away, leaving the world to Winter’s night,

And Summer’s banished – Winter reigns supreme,

And on the highways of the moon’s cold beam

Winter’s chieftains, Frost and Ice, come down

To wind the world in Winter’s cold, white gown.

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