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THE FOUR SEASONS

 

    Spring

The yellow sun is in the leaf,

the birds tweet their bills.

Time for a pack on my back,

feet on the hills.

 

    Summer

In day-shadows all the greens

pile up in sleep.

The evening drizzles a red-rose light

on bark and leaf.

 

    Autumn

It is not Sunday

for the teacup under

or the rust under

the foundations.

Tomorrow came

yesterday.

 

    Winter

Chark chark chark

the bird like a raw wine

in the day’s throat.

White welded to white

as the East

grinds over roofs.

  

Alan Marshfield

  

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