Another poem from "Poems for Occasions", a workshop led by Maura Dooley at the Jane Austen's House Museum in Chawton, Hampshire.
I sing a song of autumn, not an elegy for the fading summer’s brash display. The gardens’ showy festivals are over; their bunting flowers all are put away. Autumn has its own festoons and garlands, tawny jewels in the slant sun’s rays.
Roses that have blown in summer breezes have cast their satin off, encased their seed. The gardener’s knife comes welcome to them when they bear their scarlet fruits, their shrivelled leaves.
In spring these stumps will green and bud again. Hard pruning’s a beginning, not an end.