I asked the August dawn,
Gold palmed, had pale stars all withdrawn
The whole of their account
From yawning vault, improvident,
And scooped the dusty fount?
I asked, and dawn,
Profligate to the dale and mount,
Left me for a mendicant.

I asked the August noon,
Heedless with goldenrod all strewn
Hand over fist, subprime,
If time were money: confident
Money likewise was time.
I asked, and noon
Sovereign at its shadeless climb,
Said time wanted not a cent.

I asked the August dusk,
Of green receding to the husk,
“What have I left to spend?”
And the unheeding firmament,
With summer at an end,
I asked: and dusk,
Seedy of cloak, “Nothing to lend!”
Rasped in coinless covenant.

I asked the August night,
Careless of silver at the height,
“What is there left to buy?”
Of moths and moons, of moneyplant,
With summer passing by
I asked: and night,
Silver, remote, flung its reply
Down in Perseid vanishment.


Copyright Briar Rose 2009

Image--"Sun at Dusk" Copyright Briar Rose 2009


The line "of moths and moons" is gratefully borrowed from a line in a story by New England author Scott Thomas. When the story, "Burnshire, the Shrunken Coxswain," finds its way to an anthology, I will update you. Meanwhile, here are two other stories of Scott's, from an older anthology, to read online:

www.infinityplus.co.uk/storie...ton.htm

www.infinityplus.co.uk/storie...ers.htm