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Meet the Seasons

Photograph by Robert Haigh

Where do I begin with this cyclic poem of seasons?
I shall start with winter, though most of you would start with spring.
Winter is the weathered old patriarch who has the first and last word.
His grey beard turns to white and his eyes slowly dim,
But his underlying sinewy strength still remains.
An old lion is still a lion. Put your hand in his mouth, if you dare!

But winter eventually gives way to spring, that young upstart
Who is always in a hurry to get things moving.
Huffing and puffing and shaking the trees, he can't stand still.
He splashes water everywhere, like a teenager in the bathroom.
He has boundless energy and he wants!
But as he matures he slowly begins to mellow.

When the time comes, spring happily hands the baton over to summer.
Summer is a beautiful girl with golden hair and a radiant smile.
She looks good in any light and loves to dance the night away.
Most men adore her, but know they have little chance of keeping her.
Summer has joie de vivre running through her veins,
And she's determined to have fun until the party is over.

After the last dance it is time for autumn,
That tempestuous, red-headed step-son, to take the stage.
He is a painter of pictures, using reds, browns and yellows
To great effect. He knows how to paint a near perfect landscape.
But almost before the paint has dried on the canvas,
Winter returns to have the final say, as autumn packs up and is gone.

By Robert_Haigh

© 2013 Robert_Haigh (All rights reserved)


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