William Kelii Kekaula Poet Rhyme

Autumn in the English Countryside

The green of summer gently yields its hold,
As England wakes to amber, rust, and gold.
A sudden chill infects the morning breeze,
And whispers briskly through the changing trees.
The morning mist hangs low upon the down,
And wraps in silk each sleepy market town.
Above the fields, the fractured sunbeams break,
To paint a golden path across the lake.

The ancient oaks that guard the country lanes,
Now drop their heavy, bronze-encrusted chains.
The acorns fall, the chestnuts split their shells,
While woodsmoke rises from the hidden dells.
Along the hedgerows, scarlet berries gleam,
Like crimson jewels caught within a dream.
The robin sings his solitary note,
A melancholy tune from feathered throat.

In hollowed ways where shadows love to hide,
The copper leaves are swirling side by side.
They dance in circles on the dampening earth,
A final waltz of beauty and of worth.
The rivers flow with slower, deeper grace,
Reflecting winter’s fast-approaching face.
Yet in this fading light, a magic dwells,
Enchanting mossy banks and rocky fells.

The churchyard yews stand solemn in the rain,
As yellow fields surrender all their grain.
The harvest gathered, and the barns filled high,
Beneath a pale and shifting northern sky.
And as the twilight pulls its curtain down,
And throws a violet cloak across the town,
The hearths are lit, the cozy parlors glow,
Defying winds that from the ocean blow.

For autumn here is not a sudden death,
But nature holding in her sacred breath.
A beautiful, prolonged, and golden sigh,
Before the silver snows of winter fly.

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