And again eleven full moons hath tenderly dwindled
And th’ first tear of December
Often comes with a certain boorish breath like winter’s
A green grass of green goes brown midst th’ ley.
Orr nay! Pasture folk
Thou shouldn’t blubber like a donk― hee haw, hee haw!
Harmattan! You wanton phantom Duke!
Thou canst fade th’ world’s happiness; Nay!
Thy term as short as mi damsel’s wink
Ev’n after thy death― and two moons and two after
Thou shalt miss th’ brilliance of nature in array,
Wye aye; th’ dancing of th’ motley molten mallows
And I, once again with a gleeful heart,
Shalt gaze th’ flock graze amidst th’ ley.
© African spear
Awuah Mainoo Gabriel
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