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.

Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: autumn
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james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
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