Between The Prevailing Seasons. Poem by Danny, James Archer

What lapse yet wonderous, wimsical woes?
What season of cycle whistles?
When wind opens the gates of pressure,
you will be there under the brown, dead rustle.

Oh many months spring to mind,
with laughter and subtle beauty,
but, as automes whistles deepen
our care for weather wilts.

We never notice but its always there,
always has been, yet its still just the bit
in between summer and winter.
The depressing one.

Modern love has come away from,
summer picniks and winters by fire light.
And people, like me, look out at the moon
and see true encapsulating beauty, in death.
In the light, despite constant nagging from the clowds,
that the sun and moon bring,
yet we dont know, there there.

The sad thing is, that it recieves NO praise.
Not since the 'Ode' have I heard a mention of its power
of its grace, of the sounds the wind makes,
of the art it paints to the concrete.
Of the tunes, of the silence,
but most importantly, of the life it creates.