Days Poem by james watkin

Days



There are days, estranged, in snow-folds
Who wrap them meditative.
Others in a wantonness, wreathed.
The troupe of Spring; well received.

Now yours, Autumn, I can never
Have too grouchy model for!
Nor too ragged, shuffling. Placed by
The smug-calm of Summer high.

Sunday, December 1, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: seasons
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james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
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