Autumnal Park Poem by james watkin
Autumnal Park
A grave of summer deck wreath-borne trees.
High nor low, where now for the lover's
Cooing points the breeze?
Skip the leaves only; noon sounds lonely;
With no cough or sneeze.
Away from their banks turn swans aghast.
His image floats where who, as the "sun's
Pets" thought of them last?
I liken the old year to this man.
He, it was, into the indistinct
Who distinctly ran.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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7/25/2025 11:14:42 AM # 1.0.0
