Sing for me in the Wintertime.
Sing for me of love and loss and birth and death
and here at the beginning of my days I will stand and sing for you
of future hopes flying through my thoughts,
of present pleasures filling me,
of emptiness and hopelessness
and the delights of living in the Springtime.
I have sung these things before,
have even meant these things before
but will sing and mean them again for you.

Sing for me at the end of your days;
look back across the years and sing.
Sing me mistakes I have yet to make,
weave me a melody of Summer to come,
all splendour and frenzy and sing me Autumn
in its majesty, tall splendour resisting the
downward pull of passing years.

Do not sing me Winter, coming hard on the heels
of the flame-haired beauty Autumn.
Leave the aching of wind-chilled bones,
the inertia of hard-set patterns and the haunting
footsteps that slip ever closer in your wake,
promising an end to everything.

I will share the bloom of Spring with you,
my wild-eyed wonder can be yours
if you will sing to me of Summer's heat
and Autumn's bonfire and leave the insipid, seeping cold of Winter
until I must rush onwards,
leaving Spring behind
and you must head west, across the sea
and sing to me no more.