The scents of a mild July
Fill the woodland air.
There has been a heavy downpour.
I know there
Will be more
Rain to soak the dry
Earth here in the UK.
While elsewhere
People die
In the blistering sun.
Today, it is not the UK.
But another heatwave will surely come
And we will pray
For the rain again.
The autumn
Used to bring fallen leaves
While the springtime
Brought flowers.
Now I rhyme
Of confusion
and the illusion of progress.
But man’s hour?
I know not
When his clock may stop.
On a quiet Sunday
In Spring
I heard the clock’s
Tick tock.
It said, “this day
Of spring
Is full of sunshine.
Girls without socks
Play. But sunshine
Does not stay.
And all rhyme
Has it’s time”.
Leaves turn brown
‘Ere they fall
To waiting ground.
I heard
A bird’s
Alarm call.
Autumn will become
Winter. The sun
Will burn out.
Some still shout
Of human progress
While leaves fall.
Soon the autumn moon
Will come
And autumn’s milder face
Will replace
The boiling summer sun.
Yet the poet sees
Autumn’s Fallen leaves
Broiled by summer’s sun
Long ‘Ere autumn
Is due to come.
Flowers in springtime
Bring to mind
A former springtime.
But I find
That my November,
And oncoming December
Haunt my mind.
Winter’s last blast
Sighs and dies
In a rhyme
Of passing springtime.
In autumn, I recollect
How I would collect
The Autumn’s fall.
From the forest’s floor.
How many more
Shall I recall?
On a grey
Autumn day,
I engage
With age.
I scent the early summer air,
And there
Find a hint of autumn leaves.
The trees
Hold what will be gold
Once autumn calls, and leaves
Fall down,
To the ground.
For within this early summer air,
I scent the autumn hiding there.
They have fun
In the sun.
Their perfect
Bodies reject
The fact that they
Will grow old.
Where I to be bold
And say,
“All this will pass
Away”,
Lad and lass would laugh.
Though, perhaps a thoughtful few
Would say
“That’s true.
But we must
Enjoy our day
Ere we are dust”.
And I would nod,
And go away.
K Morris - Poet 