This started as a writing burst in Rosanna McGlone’s Zoom session a couple of weeks ago before we looked at ‘To Autumn’ by John Keats and ‘My Autumn Leaves’ by Bruce Weigl (an ambiguous title by a Vietnam war veteran). One suggestion was that we also include references to the senses.
Photo of Autumn: A Sonnet
It looks like Redesmere peeking through the trees,
resounds with quacking ducks, no buzzing bees,
the leaves, a fragile, golden curtain hung
until by slightest whispering breeze unclung.
Down, down they drop, branches naked, bare,
stark skeletons till spring creeps in unaware,
tiptoeing in a lifetime still away,
sneaking green back in with lengthening day.
We’ll stuff our mouths with turkey in the interim,
Our hearing block with carols through the grim
dark days ahead. Our sense of smell:
the cinnamon spiced, mulled wine will cast its spell.
The clock will finally restore an hour
and spring leapfrog winter with an April shower.
doggerelbanksy 