Poem of the week Seasons

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FOUR seasons pass like ghosts and take their turn

to spin fine weaves on garden’s daily wear.

All too soon spring’s creamy blossoms fade

yet, back in May, each tree was clad in lace.

Then summer’s ferny fabrics, decked with jewels;

red roses and camellia blooms, dissolve

with rain loosed petals, satin snips, in July’s drains.

Late August, asters dance in frilly skirts.

September brings its apples, peaches, plums

and sloes, so weighty gowns envelop boughs.

But then dry leaves begin to swirl in fall

appliquéing grass in orange, gold and bronze.

While winter trees wear suits of icy bark

inside, wait leaves, like tiny velvet hearts.

Mary Charman-Smith