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Poetry Pleases: Autumn

Arthur Gilliland writes a poem about Autumn, the time when juicy richness bears its fruit, and nature swells in completeness...

Springtime is the time, so we are often told,
That should be most welcomed and most joyously received.
Writers have carelessly spilt gushing rivers
Of many coloured inks,
Painters stretched and delicately daubed
Their canvases - enough to cover half
The continents of Earth -
With glorification of Spring; immature, unfolding Spring,
Welcome after the glum, moist skies of dismal Winter.
(Winter, best not thought or talked about,
Lest sadness and gloom perpetually weigh us down).
Summer, season of a million, expectant, disappointed dreams,
Of balmy days of youth, but which maybe were never real.
Summer; too wet, too hot, too dry,
A coarse disillusion,
Bemoaned by cricketers, bewailed by gardeners,
Lamented by eager tennis crowds
Who lose their passionate time
To warbling, antique stars.
Oh, Sir Cliff, although some scoff,
You're of those youthful dreams which, maybe, never were.
But AUTUMN, that's the time
When juicy richness bears its fruit,
Nature swells in completeness,
And shows itself mature, sweet smelling,
Perfection, glowing ready all around
Given to please all human senses,
To satisfy our eager cravings and our dreams.
We cannot savour Autumn
Until we ourselves know Autumn in our lives.


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