A Rolling Stone on Autumn’s Hills

 

 

He’s just a rolling stone, the beat of autumn in his veins

And his traits and tinted moods sit loose upon his reins

And the richness of his words were made to crooning and to rhyme

With the glowing reds and ambers and the purples keeping time

 

Oh the warmth of those maples could shake his timbers to a cry

Like a blast of Dixie troopers with their trumpets passing by

Yea, his heart is fit to bursting when he climbs those russet hills

And the gushing of the wind shake his spirit with such thrills.

 

Aye, the gypsy in his soul keeps his feet to wanderings

With that busy, obstreperous joy that this burning season brings

And when his roaming days are o’er and nature calls him home

They’ll hang his boots up high upon the maples’ temple dome.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I think this can also relate to the gypsy writer in some of us...the pen keeps moving even if our feet stay silent.
Words on paper can speak louder than echoes across the Alps...
there is a certain volume to this poem that is majestic and I just want to turn it up.
j.

[Pauline]

Hello J.How are you? I think the words that seem to come voluntarily make for better poetry. I love your phrase which says:- "Words on paper can speak louder than echoes across the Alps."
Many thanks for your comment.

Pauline.