Year’s End.

Apologies for another autumn poem, I really am trying to find another subject, honestly.

Autumn paints her mural

with a brush as soft as silk,

coaxing colours from her chart

to gild the fading year.

Paths of fallen glory

now guide the Winter’s steps,

catch the frosts which early

lie, and die beneath their tread.

© sweetwater 2020
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critique and comments welcome.
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For me, Sue, all poems on the seasons are gratefully received, as any thoughts about Nature feel basic to life and authentic, and this fine poem of yours is no exception. (Just one suggestion as autumn’s brush coaxes (rather than chooses) colours by presumably mixing them, would not ‘palette’ be better than ‘chart’, even allowing for some loss of alliteration? Or even ‘spectrum’ as each season has its own colour spectrum?). Anyway, another fine poem in your inimitable style.
Regards, Trevor


I don’t think you need to apologize, Autumn is a wonderful time of year and you’ve done it justice with this beautifully worded poem.

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