Late summer now And the little lost paths Are dry and cindery under foot; Dust and the early mist Curling around the edges of the day.
A leaf falls, as the trees Shake their slow golden heads, Filling the air with the sad sound Of leaves falling, drifting, tumbling down.
Over the hedge, the stubbled fields Sigh, and settle into waiting For their dry stalks to be ploughed Into the earth. Lovely furrows then, stretching Into the infinity of a much older vision.
And Autumn dances in the woods, Her red and orange skirts Billowing around her twinkling feet. Her red-berried head bobbing with excitement As the time comes When her beauty can be seen in the burning forest, Her loveliness caught in the cobwebbed hedgerows, In those tiny, sparkling shawls of light, That wrap us about With the fierce grace and beauty of love.
Growing older and having survived cancer at 40, a long time ago, certainly focuses the mind on the future and I was very aware of this when I wrote the poem FUTURE TENSE. I've always loved writing and still remember the excitement of the first longer piece of work I did. It was very experimental and I was certain it wouldn't get published. It probably wouldn't have but one of the small magazines, who did such great work for new writers, took that piece and many others. But that wasn't all they did. With infinite kindness, they often pointed out where I could improve my writing.
My first book was a picture book, MATTHEW AND HIS MAGIC KITE, but after that, I started wanting to capture the humour and interest of where I lived, so PRIVATE-KEEP OUT came next followed by KNOCK AND WAIT and ONE WAY ONLY. They're not biographies because all I wanted to do was to catch the spirit of those times.
It would be good if everyone wrote an account of their lives so their times are not lost. So many valuable histories unwritten and unread.
When I was a girl, I loved the American writer, BETTY MACDONALD, with her very funny accounts of her family and her life in the 1940's. But NORMAN MAILER's, 'THE NAKED AND THE DEAD' spun me up to the stars when I stumbled across it in the subscription library I belonged to at fifteen. ERNEST HEMINGWAY's 'CHRISTMAS IN PARIS 1923', was so sublime and beautiful it was like a torch for writers and the Toronto Star Weekly must have published it with joy in their hearts. I wonder if there still is a Toronto Star Weekly?
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“Her loveliness caught in the cobwebbed hedgerows,
In those tiny, sparkling shawls of light,
That wrap us about
With the fierce grace and beauty of love. ”
This is, by far, the most heartfelt description of autumn I have ever read! The vivid metaphors “sparkling shawls,” “red and orange skirts,” “red-berried head,” are impeccable for autumn’s personification. Even though the end of summer evokes sadness, your poem made me fall in love with its golden beauty.
This is a lovely comment, Veronica, not only taking me back into the poem but placing me firmly back into the place it came from. Your perceptive, clear eyed and sensitive appreciation is much appreciated. Many thanks. Gwen,
Beautiful!!💕💕
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Thank you so much for your comment. Comments are always appreciated and always encouraging.
Gwen.
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Bravo, Gwen!
“Her loveliness caught in the cobwebbed hedgerows,
In those tiny, sparkling shawls of light,
That wrap us about
With the fierce grace and beauty of love. ”
This is, by far, the most heartfelt description of autumn I have ever read! The vivid metaphors “sparkling shawls,” “red and orange skirts,” “red-berried head,” are impeccable for autumn’s personification. Even though the end of summer evokes sadness, your poem made me fall in love with its golden beauty.
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This is a lovely comment, Veronica, not only taking me back into the poem but placing me firmly back into the place it came from. Your perceptive, clear eyed and sensitive appreciation is much appreciated. Many thanks. Gwen,
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You are very welcome, Gwen! It is a joy to read your poetry.
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