August Child

Matthias Pantaleon

Saturday 18 April 2020

I, too, sponge-clean in the rain

I paid my dues in bits and pieces

Till it sums a heap of vale for the

Condescending sun to lay its head

Henceforth, let no man speak falsely

In any matter concerning his own shoulders

I bear on mine the threshold of continuance

Bringing gold and cedar into the land of our forebears

Burn down with the hay

Monument of oppression and segregation

The night shall put forth condemnation no more

And all shall be warm, who laboured in the rain

Earnestly

Shall I wait on the wheels of reality

For hearsay is a mottled fool with rough knacks

Usurp its soul

In its place yellow bells will chime, softly

Never again shall this child taste the sour

The bell tolls for the fairest child

Who bathe with bubbles of sunlight

And sponge-clean with warm thoughts

That hail meet and greet the fairest charm

As quail slide and gripe, and I spine down

I, too, have learned to sing the blues

August child