A hot summer burns each golden day then Autumn
calls with it's coat of grey. Falling leaves and winds
that are strong a mild taste of winter that can be hard
and long. A faded blue sky turns a misty grey as it heads
...
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Dearest English Rose, she is called our Mother because she birthed us, but sometimes, Mothers don't take very good care of their desperate children, and she ignores their cries...Sad thought.
Both beauty and wisdom eloquently expressed in this exceptional poem.Wonderful work, Sylvia. I am proud to be thought of as your sister/friend from across the Atlantic. Love, Sandra
I enjoy the season of autumn and enjoyed your description of it, but this poem is about inequality, a sad fact of life on earth. Never the less, it was a good read and a thought-provoking one. Love, Fran xxx