Monday, November 9, 2015

November's Field

How brittle is the thicket that borders thy slumb-ring sheath
A lull before the tempest of December’s brawling heath
How purple-blue the moorland sprawls far-off and whisper-soft
Where once-upon-a-summer-madrigals echo aloft

How lusterless thy pasture where the clover-cadence blew
Where little farmers flourished and the little dreamer too
How sterile now, thy solitude; how stripped of jocund lilt  
Where once-upon-a picnic scattered on thy bloom-spun quilt

How brooding is thy barrenness; how bland thy gray and brown
That lures me yet, in spite of the delights culled from thy gown
How destitute thy parlor; how deathlike thy stark repose
Where once-upon-an afternoon we swooned over thy rose

How ponderous the poets of November’s dormant swell
The wind a hungry vagabond that sweeps the open fell
How bittersweet the leafless void, bereft of vesper hymn
Where once-upon-November’s-field we watch autumn grow dim

© Janet Martin

1 comment:

  1. Well, those photos are a poem to themselves. Especially the leaves.


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