The Scent of Autumn [poem]
An Autumn feeling comes upon me now
as if the dying Summer overreached itself
unable to regain its former health
like wilting purple flowers in my soul
like a browning leaf which clothes itself
for its sooning earthly role.
Although already now I long for Spring
(and all the budly burgeon that it blessly brings)
I let my longing fall into the chill of breeze
and feel the empty tendril-tinted freeze
I know will cover all
when Winter’s icy fingers
crack my tarnished crystal ball.
Despite my overwhelming sense
of letting lovely go
of no more left to grow
of griefness undefined
of leaving things behind
and stifling scent of gravely soilsome rot
I am precisely where I should be now
(although I wish it not)
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 