Autumn

for Carl Sharpe

Autumn is a frozen church

We wait at heavy doors

That smell of rust,

Not a moon cold enough

To be called heartless

Or breathclouds of old steam

More an estuary of

Dumped mist afraid to ice;

The taste of wax on your lips;

A frame of hair round a

Hatted face, our steps as slow

As if we must tread water,

You are ice and rain and

The first crystals and even

More than this, beside me.

Reviews

[Coyote Song]

I can read into your words you write as either the season or a person. Maybe both. Unique imagery in this poem, all your own. A strong poem and a gift to your readers.

[M.E.Lyle]

Hmm, very interesting. I think I've known some people who were like ice and rain. A very chilling experience, to say the least.
The words flow easily across the page and speak to you. I only hope I heard them correctly.
I like your work.