I have written poetry as well as prose during my lifetime. Unfortunately some of them have gone missing. In fact, all but one of my very early ones have gone to that great poetry book in the sky.
Here is one I wrote recently, I hope you enjoy it.
Autumn in Sussex
The Downs are wreathed in mist, like smoke
From a dying fire.
The leaves are turning red and gold
Like flames upon a pyre.
Spring’s little lambs are grown to sheep
The swallows they have flown.
The blossoms that the summer brought
Their petals all have thrown.
Now autumn’s bounty fills the woods,
The hedgerows are ablaze
With hips and haws in colours bright
The senses to amaze.
The smoke from wood fires fills the air,
The scent of autumn true
The autumn sun is cooler now
And mornings filled with dew.
The cobwebs shine with dewdrops bright.
The spider in her lair
Thinks nothing of the rainbow hue
That scatters in the air.
And children kick the fallen leaves
As laughingly they run
To gather conkers, shiny brown,
Gleaming in the sun.
We gather blackberries from the hedge
And apples from on high.
Up in the tree they ripen now
To turn into a pie.
But autumn sometimes has a kick
And the rain lashes down.
The wind, it howls within the eaves
And through the trees doth moan.
Sometimes Jack Frost, with fingers cold,
Paints upon the glass
Pictures of fern and leaf and tree
Flower, bush and grass.
Then suddenly the trees are bare
And autumn’s bounty’s past.
Winter’s cold has now arrived.
With its arctic blast.
If you enjoyed reading this poem, please make a comment, or ‘like’ it.