Poem of the week Autumn Voices

0
Have your say

WARM days are gone and the breeze through the beeches

Whispers a warning of cold days ahead

The ash, always first to shed leaves to the earth

Hears them murmur their slow way to bed

The bracken droops sighing, its rich browness dying

Small beasts rustle on through

The acorns, and conkers, and chestnuts are falling

Beating a steady tattoo

Wild, wailing winds through the valleys at night time

Rough roaring cries in the trees

Die to the song of the thrush in the morning

Rich, ancient voices are these

Tony Gardner, Turners Hill.