The Piper Must Be Paid (English sonnet)

Demurely do the summers seem to pass -
Their ripples barely ever reach the shore;
They gift a redolence that seldom lasts
And leave our hearts forever craving more.
Fugacious is the buttercup that peeps
And fleeting are the blossoms on the breeze;
How sharp the teardrop freezes on my cheeks -
Alas, the frost so quickly cracks the trees.
The Highland's burns all trickle with a ruse
And England's brooks all gabble with a sneer.
We must begin to think ourselves obtuse
By deeming nature's all as gladsome cheer.
Who stole the serpent's gold without a burn?
Who thought the winter's chill would not return?

--

Ben Pickard