Friday Poetry: Seasons

Posted on 11/11/2011 by

0


The season of smoke is upon us—
But then, aren’t they all of smoke?
The baked pollen of Australian flowers
Give us the quite different smell of bush.
Our ‘Spring’ less torqued than, bright-
Eyed iris tightened by freshened glare.

My childhood winters played with
A wood-stoked fire behind sooted glass.
And what about the brief Autumn mist?
Summer—well yes. Sublime. Urgent
Flora burst into brownian-motion
Smoke not matching proceeding pollen,
But breathless.

Posted in: Paul, Poetry