The Itching Wind

An autumnal nip is in the air as the leaves fight valiantly to cling to their parental trees and the last vestiges of their youth.

From the Sovereigns of the Seasons collection 

The Itching Wind
Wind hits, a mutter, itch,
Skids and breaks upon the eaves.
Vague timbre, muted pitch,
Ancestral echo haunting leaves.

Summer's hold, gripping, slipping,
Pinching a beleaguered sun.
Frantic picks on citrine strings
Will not deny drumming autumn.

Denying cycle bound to youth.
Evening sun, resenting, sour.
Rumbles of a wisdom tooth,
Autumn earned, knowing colour.

Ever brightness dulling sight 
Gold is grey in uniform.
Midas begging to the night,
Gentle yellow, consoling brown.

Acceptance opens, risk glitters.
Evening's palm open to cool,
Bowing blooms usher amber
Folded costume of the fool.

Wind hits, whisper, promise,
Leaves listening patiently.
A trust fall to the waiting wise
Golden moment’s majesty.

If you enjoyed this poem and artwork - have a look at the various print options available from redbubble.com

https://www.redbubble.com/i/poster/The-Itching-Wind-by-Graeme-McA/173631121.LVTDI

Thank you for your time as always
Graeme

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