Zeb's Poetry Almanac

Awaiting Autumn

Gentle rain sprinkles spoilt, sun-scorched turf;
Oppressive humidity breaks, crumbles;
Cool breezes fortify,
Sighing beneath the shutter,
Cranked closed, after countless ray-struck days.

Weak wind feels fresher, crisper; o'er-head, pink clouds,
Nudge aside their grim, grey cousins' dark shrouds,
Summer still reminding us,
Cascading cerise cumulus,
That autumn won't get set without a fight.



Laden boughs, fruitful, sag and sway in rhythm:
Regimented rows bob and bounce in sheets of shower;
Pearlescent droplets glitter
And orange-pink beads glow
On plums and apples and pears; mouth-watering.

The first twilight stars peep through, and yet
The horizon-bound sky still glows cornflower bright.
Twinkling red, white and blue,
Through ozone night-suns shimmer;
A million magical light-sped years to dazzle us.

A lunar nail-clipping merges with this celestial ballet,
Its dark side barely visible as dusk descends;
A weary sun bids adieu,
Beyond blackening hill-scapes,
To bring light and life and warmth to someone else's morn.












Countless hues of blue imbue the sky
Right to left: turquoise, air-force, royal, indigo, navy.
Into near pitch-dark as
The panoramic canvas,
Infinity true, is iridescent with innumerable tiny crystals.

Autumn is the victor, vanquished is the setting sun;
Mercurial clouds flit across the ever brightering moon,
Silver-streaked, they chase in
Lunar hide and seek.
Still the chill wind quickens; goosebumps ripple.

Warped, shrinking floorboards creak and cry out,
Of colder nights, under my shuffling weight.
The cracked cider jug, glinting in moonlight,
Temporarily filled with scrumpy bought,
Will soon be brim-full with my pulverised fruits.

But what's the rush? Ma Nature will out.
Simply savour, now, summer's final fling,
Before ripe apples fall,
And grass, with final bow,
Glows green again, before winter claims it all.




Zebedeerox, September 2011