Leslie Philibert

Rookie - 773 Points (6th March 1954 / London, England)

The Fifth Season


not Spring. Not late but dark.
The hunter`s moon dissolves
as moths take to the woods, as sparks.

As if I could form the night like clay
and wonder at the polar stars in my palm.
The turning wind has failed to stay.

Tress and late snow unblessed with the kiss
of early warmth. Trapped in half light, in
the moor of sacred lands. It is

Submitted: Sunday, February 10, 2013

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Comments about this poem (The Fifth Season by Leslie Philibert )

  • Silver Star - 3,685 Points Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi (2/12/2013 9:29:00 PM)

    the fifth season seems to be different and the mixture of all our emotions! the darkness is compared with clay! beautiful! (Report) Reply

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