Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

Late

by Ruth Strachan


 
Summer has lingered too long,
now Autumn's running late
and in such haste to be done
before Winter comes and hunts her off.
 
She's shaking branches for the last few fruits,
begging trees for cast off clothing,
hurriedly dying it crimson, russet, gold.
She's stripping bare the willow limbs.
Her belated wet and gusty energy
sends sparrows into hiding.
 
Autumn fades with much that's still not done.
Winter comes.

Added: 27.02.2011

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