Veris ;Vestio vestivi vestitum :

Reads: 271  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Commercial Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Spring is 3 weeks late here. memories hark back to'47 when it snowed here in the west of Ireland until April.That winter is spoken about still.It is feared as much as the Famine
The latin title is to suggest - dressing up or as ''adornment'' of Spring.

Submitted: February 21, 2010

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 21, 2010



Veris ; Vestio vestivi vestitum

She comes through the tumult and the torment of storm and snow
She perseveres when she falls and presses on through wind and gale
And when her destiny is just in sight and she is beaten back thrice more

She gathers all the will . the fortitude and power that she can muster
And pushes on as all the seed of life is suspended in a frozen hibernation
And each and every bud is harkened but rendered frigid in the ground

Clasped in the dead mans vice grip fist of an unrelenting Winter

And the slow pulse of the Season throbs

With a penitential patience in deep and the unawoken heart
Of the Earth which holds no life ; only dead in the black-iced loamy clay

Daffodils , too merry by far , have pushed above the soil;
But the frost so quickly beats them down again
Like the floozy at the party ; too soon she flirts with all
The suitors in to room , until she becomes bedraggled
and is carted off to bed- slurring in inebriation as she goes.

The farmer and the Sheppard each look skyward
Pensively , they climb the hill to see the setting sun
And head back homeward, heavily and disconsolate once more,
In the dusk , as the frost crumbles underfoot.

She is three weeks late by now
Three weeks the seed crop in the haggards lie;
And they remembe , each with chilled heart the Winter of forty seven
When the snow stayed on the hill till April
They pray each night ‘ Dear God , let her come soon , Bring her soon.
Dear God be clement , merciful ..and let her come …

The morning brings the Southern wind at last
The breeze is like a balm on the harrowed brow.
The farm-folk kneel and pray
As the sky's grey cloud is uncreased
Like fresh linen on the bed
And her sullenness is ceased

The wind splays soft kisses all across the land .
The pastoral reels and Jigs are full with frolics ;
To welcome new- dropped lambs, they fill the air
The buds awaken ; and the song bird once more finds her air

The dead-mans drowning grip relents at last.
As winter slips below the wave
The ever enduring little bird of Spring
Has persevered with an heroic heart
The wild Atlantic beats with less fury against the Cliffs near Moher
And Spring has come at last to the rolling Hills of Clare

© Copyright 2017 donkylemore. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Commercial Fiction Poems

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by donkylemore

Popular Tags