My mother found an old poem of mine today. She said she thought it must have been one of mine, as it didn't make any sense! She had been reading an old book of mine that I got about nine years ago, when I was young, free, innocent and suprareligious in a real way. I had been down visiting a guy I had just been to the Philippines with, and he left me to sleep on a sofa in a room in his house. As I was going to sleep I could see this elegant set of four pictures placed vertically over one another personifying the four seasons as women, much like the French do with Liberté - if I'm not wrong. This was a time when I would get inspired and have to write things done on a whim. A poem slowly brewed in my mind, but I had no paper, and couldn't exactly look for any at that time of night. The only thing I had was my photograph print of St. Therese, which I was using as a bookmark and had a white back, so what I wrote had to be my only draft. But the photo seems to suit it. Here it is below unedited by my older, sadder and wiser self. By the way, I also found a piece of tissue in the book containing a four leaf clover. It was given to me by a dominican nun I'd sat beside on a bus. That the sort of thing that happens to you when you're suprareligious, I suppose. Not many clovers in the offing these days ...
A Woman for All Seasons
Voluptuous and buxom
Spring burgeons forth
Flowers of the Revolution
Spilling over holding arms
Demise is Summer's glory
Green swathes the haymaking grass
Parasol of drying plants
Blond hair and sensitive skin
Orange girl serving Harvest Time
Autumn's ceremonial dress
Crowned with beads' pearl
Fruits plattered before their crush
Winter's White Wonders
David's Star hangs on Christmas Trees
Wrapt figure hugging demurement
Growing lines decorated by snow.
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