Seasons Poem by Howard Pipe

Before the sun falls
into long nights,
trees trace their empty outlines
against the hollow landscape.
A frosty blanket
squeezes vapour trails
from the cold air.
Dancing snowflakes,
like beams of light,
flutter in the silence.

Spring rises early
with shrieks and calls.
Dormant buds unfurl tender green shoots,
and floral carpets
creep beneath the trees.
Nest building resumes,
frantic as though time is slipping away.
A new brood of chicks,
naked and helpless,
wait for their feed.

Shadows hide from the sun,
their profiles linger
under a simmering sky.
Heady scents oozing from
brash Summer shades,
serve an endless feast.
Soft breezes waft
wisps of pollen,
and swallows, in search of insects,
skim across the green.

In the distance treetops sway,
a twisted branch
creaks and bends.
Overhead, the canopy buckles,
and a swirling maelstrom
unleashes showers of
spinning patterns,
which crackle underfoot.
Autumn storms in
from the west.