As a teenager I wrote anguished poetry, as certain souls do. Then I grew out of it for a while. Four years ago I grew back into it (much of it still anguished, but not always). I ventured back via Autumn leaves - my first poem then swirled with the colours of Autumn, weaved into a royal rug of red and golden hues. Since then the weather and the seasons have been a strong element in my verse.
But today's offering is in keeping with where I am around this Monday (yesterday). I write this looking out at my Autumn garden, here in Essex, England.
The Autumn Garden
The rain is light, but unhurried as if wishing
To be somewhere else entirely.
Drops catch on the four webs
Which drape the iron fence,
The bare patch in the yard
Where the summer's swimming pool
Stripped the grass from the earth
Is sprouting again, green heads
Like lost friends returning.
A squirrel, settled migrant, interloper,
Tight-ropes the bough of the cherry
Severing leaves. A blue tit
Emerges from a drainage gap
In the brick wall.
Beneath the misplaced gum, stones
Mark tiny graves where the children
Buried platys and guppies
From our tank after disease
The rosemary bush in the southern bed
Lifts the upturned triangle of its branches
In welcome, but the rain
Still reluctant, ungenial,
So now you know where I am as I send out my posts.
If you write poetry, what was your springboard? Was it the weather, a season, a mood, a drama in your life? Do share the story.
And remember to check out the other poems and seasonal writings linked to L.L. Barkat's link above.