Tuesday, 12 May 2015

autumn poem



Autumn




Autumn comes late to this new year

No leaves on trees, no tennis gear

but black and white birds mutter their beaks tight

and crispy leaves tumble from the highest height

and scattered acorns crack beneath my feet,

and forgotten rubbish flies sky high from under the seat

and old damp oaks wave at me.

as I walk through the mist trying to see.




Autumn comes late to this new year

No leaves on trees, no tennis gear

But I sprint and run and pass the ball

“Hooray I scored!” I loudly call.

1 comment:

  1. I love the end to this poem. It shows hope, that even though winter is here, there is much to love about winter too.

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