There is no Autumn in my fertile heart,
where nothing falls but must ascend like heat.
My greensome coloured leaves do not depart
from twigs and branches. Summer’s not complete.
No frost can come my way to freeze the dew.
The crops sown in my fields no harvest need.
For melancholy moments now are few
and flowers in my soul won’t “go to seed”.
Perhaps you think I’m falsely speaking here —
describing things which have no place in truth.
But I am not a victim of the year
and am, in perpetuity, a youth.
When Father Time comes knocking on my door,
I’ll say: “I’m not your servant anymore!”
© Alan Morrison, 2017