Wednesday, 20 November 2019


Summers Survivors

It’s that season of mists again.
The season of damp decay,
of naked trees,
of fallen leaves
ready to be walked through,
kicked up,
thrown around,
admired,
pressed,
preserved
for prosperity,
for the future.
The season of mists
which blurs the landscape,
as it strives to cover the nakedness
of the trees,
as it hides
the future
which will surely emerge.
Maybe this time
the future
will be orange
like the oaks now,
the summer’s survivors,
the last of the clothed trees,
clothed in orange
now.


No comments:

Post a Comment