AUTUMN

One from many years back but seems apropriate now.


AUTUMN 1969

Elms are flared with yellow;

Oaks turn bronze;

Mist swirls along the furrow;

The year grows old.

And the beech trees stand

Root-deep in discarded gold.

I, squirrel-like secrete

About the hollows of my mind

Jewels

To hang upon the world

At other times

When all within

Is uniformly grey,

When poetry fades

And reason

Faces the light of day.

But words cannot retain

 

Such images;

Only their ghosts remain,

Reminding me how

Through the autumn mist

I prayed involuntary prayers

Of gratitude

To gods that did not exist.

 

 

© Daffni 2021
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critique and comments welcome.
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Bhi

This is an extremely rich poem; there is so much to savour and get lost in.

The only little quibble I have is that you have used words to create images in the mind, and those are the seeds of everything that we are, were and will be. The ghosts are captured in the words, and the words remain.

Exquisite.

Griffonner

Daff, this is beautiful. Such a wonderful way with you in these words.
Allen x

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