Rod Morris

Rookie - 171 Points (14-09-1934 / Auckland, New Zealand)

Seasons - Poem by Rod Morris

Summer days are happy days, when life is full of fun.
When families come together, for Christmas and the sun.
Wishes made, stockings hung, the kids cant wait till morn.
Excited shouts of Santa's been, it isn't even dawn.
Frantic little footsteps as they leap upon our beds.
Busy little fingers as giftwraps torn to shreds.
Melodic cries and soft wee sighs, I really wanted that.
Be it talking dolls, computer games, perhaps a cricket bat.
These fleeting days of happiness are filled with endless joys.
Summer days are happy days, just made for girls and boys.

Autumn is the time of year when Mother Nature just runs riot.
Startling colours and contentment, just sitting in the quiet.
You've watched green leaves changing mind, red-yellow, orange-brown.
They cling to life with all their might, but finally tumble down.
In kaleidoscopic carpets, they lay sprawled at mother's feet.
Covering paths, smothering lawns, your favourite garden seat.
Denuded trees are left to cool without their leafy screen.
They stand and ponder just like us, of when they were serene.
The days grow short, the nights grow long, and warmth is gone at last.
Autumn days, rich colour days, for reflecting on what's past.

Winter is the time of year when nature takes a rest.
Deserved by all of life's forms, that has given of their best.
Days when mountain ranges disappear before your eyes.
Mist and rain, hail or snow, may fall from darkened skies.
Children scurry of to school on busy little feet.
Commuters hurry off to work in search of wealth and heat.
Birds migrate to far off shores for sustenance, and mate.
To beach lagoons, high sand dunes, a hidden mountain lake.
People huddle by their fire, or snuggle in their bed.
Winter days are pink cheek days, days when books are read.

Spring, the season loved by all, Mother Nature at her best.
She gives new life to seeds and bulbs, which have had their winters, rest.
Trees that stood in silent sleep at last begin to flower.
Humming insects, singing birds on every blossomed bower.
Mountains which have long been held in winters icy grip.
Release their hold of liquid gold, for its first cascading trip.
People seem to come alive, there's this feeling in the air.
Lawns are mowed, hedges cut, motivation everywhere.
All seasons have their special gift, but of spring there is no doubt.
Springtime is the happening one, its what life is all about.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 15, 2012

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