September
In the tea trees to the whistling song thrush
I alone hear the first September dawn,
and outside beyond ryegrass, fern and rush
glisten woolly coats of sheep early shorn.
The petrichor and a jade scented hedge,
the birds, the honey bees in pollen’s net -
that botany of sights and sounds, that fledge
of young, of new from moonrise to moonset.
See gathering mist on the waterfowl
and behold the colour and elan of spring -
the morepork on nocturnal moonlit prowl
that casts its eye and spreads its speckled wing.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
Written: September 1996
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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