The Seasons

The Seasons

Tender green grass topped hills mown in the morning dew.
Evasive buttercups standing tall through razor discs of doom.
Whirly winds whistle winters tune. As it’s being blown away by the gusts of a season due.
Powerful concertos batter glass windows.
Rain obliterates the outside as we rest on our pillows.
Moon shines on unaffected by our weather.
The sun rays so weak, plants losing their tether.
No crunch of newly felled leaves, just the mush of damp, fluffy moss.
Reminding us still, that mother-nature is boss.
And once all rainfall has ran away, birds chime again that Spring’s coming this way.
Winter packs up its bags for one other day. But take solace that is a year away.
Soon we will sit and rest on our laurels
Forget winter will come while the seasons do quarrel.
Summer will come embrace us at last.
Winter and Spring will be in the past.
And not even violin concertos will be
As beautiful as the sight of the sun setting at sea.
I will sit one warm summers night
That’s when I shall appreciate the seasons plight.
And while I sit the most beautiful season will come.
Red, brown and amber, falling down from the sun.
The warm embrace of colour, and the crunch of Autumn.
Winter is coming, and I had forgotten.

Davie Magill

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