Autumn sonnet – by Harry Goode

Now it begins, slowly the drift of days,
singly at first, in whispering descent,
each loss imperceptible, but shall lay
in clots at last, exude the rotting scent
sweet as the coming frosts, the autumn thrill,
the passing of the idle summer lie.
A truthful wind will strip all bare, will kill
illusion, show the bones against the sky.
But first returns the light they drank in joy,
a candle flame within a darkening time,
transmuting sombre greens to red and gold
Spiders, tiger-striped, weave their cunning ploy
from twig to twig, prey on the sun’s pale shine,
ensnaring it as season’s tale is told.

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