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Click hereThe outside world´s forbidding. Too much rain
has turned the reds and yellows down a notch
and now the garden´s dressed in what appears
full mourning. Moss and fallen leaves surround
the bush, it´s currants gone; I've rooted up
the rotting beanstalks from their patch and found
the soil gone green, just like a morning coat
the worse for wear: an undertaker's chic,
worn, threadbare – obnoxious. On the birch
there's but a yellow crest and there's no leaf
left on the chestnut. Autumn, people say,
comes out in colours, but there's mainly gray
and brown to speak of dying and decay
round one defiant gesture where the larch
in flames of vicious orange burns away.
Very nice, particulary how you stretch the imagination in S3.
We call your larches tamaracks. I have a grove of them on my property in marsh on the other side of a creek. It's remarkable how much your poem reminded me of my property, not just in terms of the trees, but other images in the poem.
As usual the fluency of your words and meter are hard to equal.