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Autumn In Albion Herne The Hunter heads for home forests deep and dark. Where once verdant trees now shed russet coloured leaves. Tears of remembrance for a summer past. Siberian blasts replace gentle mistral breezes. Rising seas lash Alba’s crumbling coasts. Proud mountains stand aloof craggy shoulders dusted in snow. Deep still lakes silently keep the Aird Righ’s secrets. Whilst mists and magic fill the valleys and the glens. Animals seek shelter in hallowed hazel groves People give thanks as natures harvest is gathered. A mothers succour. The September Equinox, herald, Of this yearly gradual decline. The land is rested, gently sleeping, until springs joyous rebirth. |
Additional Notes:
My two boys James and Ben asked for an autumn poem for school this is what I gave them!
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2005-10-29 13:39:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.91667
Stephen, a delightful piece. I am sure your boys were pleased, in fact, I wonder if they attempted to duplicate it with similar success.
Autumn In Albion – Having lived in England for three years and visited there any number of times, I am not unfamiliar with autumn there. My stepmother (mom – who raised me) was from Bradford, Yorkshire, and I actually lived North of London near Braintree (RAF Wethersfield) as a teen.
Herne The Hunter heads for home
forests deep and dark. – To the relief of the Merry Wives of Windsor I might add; and you begin with an autumn tale- I can almost imagine all hallows eve sneaking up on us as winter does from autumn!1
Where once verdant trees now shed
russet coloured leaves. – Your choice of verdant expanded the entire image of this stanza. And indeed the “coloured leaves” fall thus the name. There is a special dualistic meaning to “shed”- for it can easily translate to the sorrow of summer becoming the tear leading to autumn. Excellent balance.
Tears of remembrance
for a summer past. – Once more your “shed” is reinforced. “Summers Past” in itself can mean the summer gone, or the summers gone. A far more universal reinforcement of the ideals behind your theme.
Siberian blasts replace
gentle mistral breezes. – I think you are the only other person I have ever seen use mistral besides myself. I think the Siberian blasts must be some epic blow to make the mistrals seem gentle breezes. Then again, I have lived in England. I don’t mind the breezes, but what do you do with the smell of France?
Rising seas lash
Alba’s crumbling coasts. – The coastline of Dover, or that of Scotland, or even the gentler views from Portsmouth, are all forever in my mind. To think of the history, and the crumbling Castles that accompany the coastline, how much the matter of imbuement are the matters of autumn ‘cross the channel.
Proud mountains stand aloof
craggy shoulders dusted in snow.
Deep still lakes silently
keep the Aird Righ’s secrets.
Whilst mists and magic fill
the valleys and the glens. – I found, having traveled the length and breadth of G.B, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, that I could not break up these lines. You paint such a beautiful picture of an historical land, would that I could visit again soon. And from that you speak of the valiant Demon that haunts the moments of that history, with unhallowed- and still like the thorn of winter that bears the brand of fire.
Animals seek shelter
in hallowed hazel groves
People give thanks
as natures harvest is gathered. – It is of a truism, that the animals shelter themselves, for the age and history of the country doesn’t detract from the spirit that dominates, that of self sufficiency and resourcefulness. There were times when “thanks” was more for surviving the winters, than the providence of the moment. Excellent stanza.
A mothers succour. – I think the mothers help, is much like the springs insistence. Winter will come, and come the spring, spring will grant autumns preparations a mode of thanks.
The September Equinox, herald,
Of this yearly gradual decline. – In the scientific terms, there come the Equinox, that of shortening days and autumns official arrival. The Sun heads southward as if migrating from the cold, just another avian seeking to warm itself and procreate.
The land is rested, gently sleeping,
until springs joyous rebirth. – And again, the cycle holds its mystique. Indeed, nothing seems more slumberous than a snowfall on an moon lit ‘scape.
I certainly enjoyed this piece. It brought a joyous memory to the forefront.