Shall spring flowers stay
To play
With a gray
Winter’s day?
Some say
Nay
Flowers gay
Will not stay
For a gray
Winter’s day.
Yet I shall be bold
And venture to say
That gold
Is a powerful aphrodisiac
Which the poor man does lack
And which may
Smooth the way
For a gray
Winter’s day
To play
With spring flowers gay.
It is summer yet
The leaves can still be found
Strewing the ground.
Shall I regret
The gray hair
Where
There remains no trace of brown?
The longest day of the year
Will soon be here
Ere Autumn throws
Her clothes
All haphazard down.
I shall in beauty drown
For our little moon
Is gone too soon
While nature’s store
Remains as before.
I enjoyed Laura Routh’s poem “The Leaves Are Falling Down”, https://owlinthewood.com/blog/2018/5/19/first-poem-the-leaves-are-falling-down. For me, the poem isn’t merely about the forest ageing and the coming of Autumn, it also speaks of the harmful effect humans often have on the natural world.
Summer frocks
Gosamer thin
Caress skin.
The season unlocks
But not for him.
Oft of a summer’s day
Have I turned away
To write.
I shall go out tomorrow
And forget my words
In the singing of birds.
But when night
Falls, I shall return what I borrow
From my ever present friend
Old Father Time
And my brief rhyme
Shall reach it’s end.
It is cold.
Should I be bold
And go outside?
Or like a tortoise, hibernate?
I can not decide.
It is late
In the year.
A thought most drear
Does take
Hold .
Not all tortoises awake
From the cold.
I pray
For a spring day.
An autumn girl.
Falling leaves whirl.
Trees naked stand
Their branches reaching for the great sky
And I.
There is sadness in the Autumn sun
For our fun
Is almost done.
The prize could have been won
But we let it slip away
As there is always another day.
So we sit here,
In the fall
And recall
What could
And should
Have been done
Those with greying hair
Linger where
Fallen leaves proliferate.
It is growing late.
Dare I broach
The final gate
We all must approach?
The scents of Autumn are all around.
Soon acorns and conkers will strew the ground.
Summer’s outstretched hand
Still lingers,
Her loosening fingers
Hold
Leaves of gold.
K Morris - Poet 