Seasons – Page 147

Copse

Winter’s trees stand watch
Their last recalcitrant leaves
Heralding the spring

In a basement bar
Listening to live music
With my lovely wife

The voice of autumn
Whispers from the swirl of leaves
Carried on the breeze

The short light of dawn
Illuminating strangers
Waiting for the train

Salt spray in my face
The surf pounding the sand as
I comb for sea glass.

On the horizon,
the evening sun stretches low
beckoning the night.

Driving, lost in thought.
Brought back to earth by the smell
of freshly cut grass.

The last light of day
Paints the leafless canopy
With an auburn glow.

I wish it was when
cold winter days were naught
but a memory.

The night air’s cold hand
reaches down and pulls my breath
in shards from my chest.