April is the cruellest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
T.S. Eliot – The Wasteland – I. The Burial Of The Dead
I love T.S Eliot. My collection of his work is currently leant out to a friend which meant I had to google this poem, but his writing is something I find myself amazed at over and over again.
Today’s prompt for NaPoWriMo was to take the first line of this poem and write our own about which month we think is the cruellest. At the moment I would say that April is perhaps the cruellest month. Now normally I don’t bring politics into my poems, but I thought I would give it a go today.
Facing The Spring
It’s an undercurrent,
a rip-tide lurking beneath the surface.
has been around for months.
Spring brings up
more than just the daffodils.
This job was his life.
This job his father’s life.
His grandfather’s, his great father’s,
those men who came before
and worked to the bone
to build something for the next.
He must now face the Spring.
The possibility they might not survive
to see the milk prices rise
or his children take his place.
And all that will left
are empty parlours and empty fields
and empty hearths
where generation, after generation
came in to hang their hats
and laugh by the fire
once upon a time
when days were better.