Peter Rees Poet Rhyme

First of November

The clocks have gone back
And all is still. The trees are gleaming gold.
The garden's dieback 
Mode infectious, the air is damp and cold.
No texture to the sky,
Its sullen grey devoid of shapes
Of clouds, and no birds fly.
A melancholic mist shroud drapes
The resolutely silent land,
Waiting, knowing, change accepting,
Yet again. A blanket soft unfurled by hand
Unseen, the autumn stage directing.
The players now must reconcile
As winter signs unfold
And glad we are that for a while
The trees are gleaming gold.

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Jan Allison July 27, 2018 at 4:48 PM An absolute joy to read Peter I loved your vivid descriptive autumnal write, I love the time of year and the glorious colours of the foliage:-) hugs Jan xx

Patricia Cresswell September 29, 2017 at 11:26 AM I come once again on a day here just as you described your day. It is funny (strange) how we humans seem to have retained ancient ways of sensing things in our immediate world. I suppose it is the remains of a survival mechanism. Yet to have retained even this vestige means to me that at one time we were much closer to nature and a part of us does not want to give it up. Am I wandering maybe oh well. Patricia Cresswell September 29, 2017 at 11:33 AM My point being somewhere inside that connection tells us the intent of the behaviour. Today the intent is to begin clearing the leaves from the trees. Promised I am done now. Patricia Cresswell September 29, 2017 at 11:27 AM I love those moments. It is like channeling some ancient poet.

Patricia Cresswell August 21, 2017 at 2:42 PM Yes trees are very kind to us. Bringing a last rush of grandeur before the stark beauty of winter. Thank you for reminding me that all is never lost just misplaced for a time. Peter Rees August 21, 2017 at 3:28 PM It was one of those moments, sitting quietly looking out at the garden, when words came to me. I love your interpretation - all is never lost, just misplaced for a time. Thank you.