Autumn
It is not easy to speak of autumn
Poets have already done the yellow orange hues.
Sometimes the red sneaks in...
God knows ...they’ve waxed lyrical on this ad nauseum
....so what’s there left for me to say...?
What can I add ... and is there any need too...?
The colours speak out loud and clear
Say all they need to say without me whittling
On about their beauty....As if beauty existed anyway...!
I mean ...these leaves are dying...their sap is draining
From their flimsy veins
And yet...I have to say it ...they are beautiful !
They lie upon the ground
Along the granite path
On the River Swans swim by.. heads high and haughty
...polluted waters lapping at their wings.
They don’t appear to mind the state of things...
Some leaves drift down and float
And when the evening sun is soft about their ebbiness
It all becomes a sort of miracle
I feel a pulse race thru me
And...I’m filled with boundless gratitude that I’m still alive
To witness it
The hidden code of nature and its rhythm
I do not understand
I probably do not need to
As long as I am kind towards the whole of it
And let it be , and give it space..and do not kill it.
I have a scarlet tree...which deepens down to crimson
As the days draw darkness in ...it thrills me
But... I will say no more because the poets
Have already said it.
Kristine Byrne 5th Nov 2011