The greening of Spring
comes neither suddenly
nor completely.
The snow of winter, now topped with a greyish scum,
melts from the rises in the land
revealing rocks grey with lichens and
knaps and
knolls brown with last year's grass.

The green darkens
and the heat of Summer
spreads a bluish haze
till after the Regatta.
The air cools down,
the season slows down
to the September gales.

Is the Autumn colour
yellowish brown or
brownish yellow?
Anyway, the contagion
comes and
stays till all but the sturdiest of trees -
the spruce, the fir, and the pine -
are laid low and
brought under our feet.

Every season slowly encroaching upon the next.
Each season, that is, except Winter.
One morning the dahlias hang their heads
unable to carry on any longer.
The frozen potholes tinkle underfoot.
And the grass form mops on the landscape.
It warms towards evening and
'the old woman picks her goose.'
(Flakes as big as your thumb.)
By morning all has been reduced to
a level playing field of sterile whiteness.
And the world sleeps.   Submitted By: NULL