Wrote this quite a few years ago now. Not sure about the title any more but will keep it as a working title for now. I always try to leave a comment on pieces I read — I would be very grateful if you could do the same for me! Thank you and I hope you enjoy.
This has all been done before:
The shrouded morn, the baleful twilight
Those with a lighter touch than mine
Have washed water-coloured Autumn
Limpid, pale and muted across the page,
Leaving more behind than
Who can say he has not seen the
Blanket of leaves, red and gold or
Abandoned brown upon the ground?
Who has not relished the wisp and crunch
Of heartless footfall on fallen treasure, whilst
Turning blind senses from the dark and
Sliding rottenness beneath, seeing only the beauty
You have stepped out swathed in
Scarves and gloves, swaddled in coats,
Become a sweating skulk, desperate for air
Only to be wrapped more tightly yet in the
Dank coldness; the determined chill of Winter’s breath.
She is but a pace away, you know; waiting,
Draped in patience, adorned with her
An infant, cradled in a world as warm as Summer,
Fresh as Spring, has not seen these things.
S P Oldham