April 15, 2012
Spring breaking across rough stone
As I walked around with my camera yesterday I kept thinking of Larkin's characteristically melancholy poem about the seasons, and what they have to tell us about mortality:
We see the spring breaking across rough stone
And pause to regard the sky;
But we are pledged to work alone,
To serve, bow, nor ask if or why.
Summer shimmers over the fishpond.
We heed it but do not stop
At the may-flies' cloud of mist,
But penetrate to skeleton beyond.
Autumn is the slow movement;
We gather our harvest and thank the lofty dusk.
Although glad for the grain, we are
Aware of the husk.
And winter closes on us like a shroud.
Whether through windows we shall see spring again
Or not, we are sure to hear the rain
Chanting its ancient litany, half-aloud.