“The trees are bare”, you said.
The sun shone
And our 2 dogs ran on
Unaware their autumn
Must come. And a gentle breeze
Blew through grasses.
When young lovers kiss amidst spring flowers
In their urgent need
They fail to heed
How our hours are fragile as glass.
Spring and summer pass.
We come to autumn
And the bare tree speaks of mortality.
As I stood
In the leaf-strewn wood
Listening to birdsong,
I heard the leaves
Falling from trees
And thought how short
Is our birdsong.
And the Autumn breeze
Scented with leaves
Spoke of the joy
Of temperate days.
Yes, everything must decay.
But autumn lawns
Are covered in acorns
And children play
As I once did
When I hid
Amidst these Autumn trees
And fallen leaves.
I recall
How an old bough,
Ready to fall,
Blocked the woodland path.
I passed
Pushing it away
On a winter’s day
As birds sang.
The bough still hangs.
It must fall.
And I will recall
How I passed
That old broken bough
On the path
And how birds sang.
I leave dry leaves behind.
Yet, I find
Leaves still whisper to me
Of my mortality.
Often they sound the same as rain.
I will return again
For they are part of my heart.
And poetry may live on
When I am gone.
While the rain will remain
The dark comes quickly on.
Leaves fall in the park.
And I remember that early September
Has come, bringing Autumn.
And summer has gone.
But I can not repent
Of autumn’s sweet scent
Or grieve over fallen leaves
For she is beauty.
This storm in late August
Has stripped many leaves from trees.
Twigs snap and crack underfoot.
All Augusts must fade to September.
And I remember
Autumn must come.
A January breeze
Whispers through trees
And winter grasses
And, as it passes
It speaks to me
Of my mortality.
It will be minus 3 tonight.
The light
Dies fast in winter.
There is a splinter
Of ice in my heart
With which I make art.
True, sometimes the sun breaks through.
But for now I rhyme
Of wintertime.
Spring will bring birdsong
But winter’s splinter is forever part
Of my poet’s heart.
Though birdsong does not last long
It may live on
When I am gone
In a rhyme of my wintertime.
These autumn leaves
Remind me
Of my mortality.
Winter’s knife
Chops down life.
And trees
In spring bring
Forth leaves
And I recall
We all
Are of earth
And turf.
How quickly August slips into September.
I remember how the Spring
Was full of birdsong
And opening flowers.
In December
I remember
Long spring hours
And birdsong.
K Morris - Poet 