Opposite Poem

 

 NaPoWriMo says write an 'opposites' poem. Take someone else's poem and switch it entirely...

Autumn

The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

John Clare

(I switched it to Spring)

Spring

The bud remains quiescent though winds moan and seethe

On dull-crested garden; the seed waits beneath

The ground, freed of winter is clenched by deep frost

Hiding spring, like a miser still counting the cost

The ground, rich and ready, is like under-baked bread

As buds becomes heady on tree-limbs overhead

The rested field sprawls, humbled by its naked bosom

As honey-bees fall, tumble, from blossom to blossom

Valleys, like cold dungeons are dark before dusk

But the orchard is burgeoning with pink-petal musk

Yet still cool is the air; silver-gray is the shower

But we do not care; Spring hath too short an hour

© Janet Martin