The Fall Poem by james watkin
The Fall
Season of dangling parts
And missing pieces.
Stands a scarecrow in rags
As its effigy.
A grower's rusty carts
And barrows rain-gnawed
Haul away as harvest
And what cinders be
It bunched rounds, the season's
Its branchless all-shapes;
The juicy and the dry;
The gold; and golden.
Sniffle their pros and cons
In good reviews, bad
In one and the same gale
One and the same men.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/20/2024 3:50:27 PM # 1.0.0.1119
