on morning’s ebb tide
i contemplate summers end
beseeching autumn
Seasons
All posts tagged Seasons
clouds capture the east
autumn’s chill begins to bight
stock the root cellar
Spring’s hope came again.
All she left me, is alone…
Need to get out more
…
Inspired by the line from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem – ‘Locksley Hall’. It goes: “in the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love”.
northerlies hasten
life and death in equal share
no pref’rence offered
westerly winds cease
cirrus clouds streak a blue sky
new season arrives
sea mist shrouds july
gentle waves caress the beach
landmarks deceive me
Autumn’s southerlies arrive –
Snapping towels on clotheslines, and
Sneaking under doors.
‘An ill wind’ some will say.
For me it’s a herald.
Reminding me of the the things
The winter season brings –
The season of no lawn mowing,
Porridge for breakfast,
Shorter days and longer, cosy nights.
Making fog when we speak and laugh,
As we walk rugged in scarves and jackets.
The sound of dry and fallen leaves
Rattled against my bedroom window,
As a promising wind gusts.
The weight of the kite,
As it struggles for freedom –
In winters’ brilliance.
Carving a virgin wave through frigid,
salt flavoured air –
On a rare winter swell.
Scudding clouds,
Frozen puddles, and
Red roses –
No sign of illness I say.
tree frogs are silent
humid wind is from the north
turn up the air-con
Deciduous
Spring branches begin their slow growth
Green leaves appear and buds are on the way.
The chill that was in the south
has swung around and warms the things we say.
As summer strengthens its tender hold
Occasional flowers will bear fruit.
Bees buzz and hum, encouraging the mood,
Our words no longer seem just moot.
Autumn hides the coming chill
behind a profusion of extravagance.
True colours show and bend our will
Conversations display less elegance.
Winter comes and brings a frost
that reaches deep and burns the soul.
A barren twig we seem to use the most
To lash each other with jibes we can’t control.
‘Til spring returns and frost subsides
When shoots of green will test the air.
Hope for a season that maybe abides
And once again our words are safe to share.
Poetry is my aeroplane 