Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.
A season’s seasons
Autumn, some swear, enjoys its own four seasons.
It has its spring: when the signs of it come in,
beyond the village, the trees arch and glimmer
over the fields, rewarming light fashions.
Evening is then its own phenomenon
down by the neat stream of autumnal summer.
That’s when a soul could notice the slow leaves
gliding over those tall reflections. When
autumn’s autumn arrives at last, it’s calmer
still, as beyond the hills the daylight moves
away; only a hint of loss may linger.
The deep past truly lives; the rest is rumour.
Now winter touches winter. The mind’s hunger
dissolves. As does the joy, the doubt, the anger.
Michael Caines lives in London, and has had recent poems commended in the Battered Moons and Culpepper’s Remedy competitions.