Anyone who has ever considered themselves a poet has probably written a poem about Autumn (it's inspirational!), here is one of my attempts. I'm not happy with some lines, so it is subject to editing...
Nearing the forest
where falling leaves dance for you,
every leaf a petal from flower.
Red deer stags roar while squirrels scuffle,
arranging acorns like never before.
Behold colours of a million years,
a theatre of complexion -
shades spring and summer never knew
and Winter covers with falling snow.
Blushing branches on podium,
tempestuous winds are brewing.
For now, the fluttering breeze propels
nervous leaves across earthened ground.
Mid-afternoon sun hallucinates
against the perfect clear sky,
as the last of the butterflies flutter,
and the last of the hedgehogs hibernate
ambling their slow, spiky way to the woodpile.
Autumn apples, succulent blackberries,
taste the harvest of fruits that fall.
Sweet potatoes, warm walnuts and pumpkins
fresh for the Hallowe’en ball.
Melodious rain spills like joyous tears –
it’ll soon to be snow, soft to feel.
Surly sky suggests the onset of winter,
hear hushed chirps when you pass by
as feathered birds huddle in the trees that guard.
On an early night, glimpse Winter’s sight
as a sharp cold envelopes.
The frost traces the grass
as the sun waves goodbye to the sky.
The crispness of the air
matches each step on the floor.
Some see Autumn
as a decline in life,
as summer ends the autumn plans
for a new time, replenishing
and rekindling it’s senses.
Falling fruits seed new growth.
Autumn is your imagination,
it’s an Endless Autumn for me.
Alex Harford.