Sunday, 13 December 2009

Late Middle Age

Author of Autumn sulked

in a corner. Again he had raced

into third place, won bronze,

and so he hid in shadow

camouflaged by leaves,

concealed by longer hair and hanging briars.

He had finally got the idea

- he was not a bonny summer

or glitter of winter.

‘Why me!?’ he shouted into corners,

lugged branches off trees in a strop,

battered gulls into silence.

Later, he filled valleys with misty breath

before an amber sun lifted

him high to air

and with much more room to slow

he perceived how, in limited light,

light is a priceless gift.

After rage he waves and sings,

rattles a hedgerow with magical voice

‘Howl often! Hush!’

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