By Ingrid | Featured Contributor

The song of Summer’s ending
Lament to lost enchanted days
Sings in the early autumn winds
And rustling leaves born on the breeze
And echoes through the avenues
Of the early turning trees.

The parting hymn of Autumn
Sung soft into the evening wind
Sighs mournfully, and solemn
Leaving not a breath of warmth behind
It lilts and moans
In tilts and groans
The falling leaves to find.

The stone-cold dirge of Winter
Which purges life from land and sea
Is heard in hollows, howling raw
Beyond the slopes and down the lea
As painfully it bends the bows
Of the bare and barren trees.

Then sing of Spring’s beginning:
Away with seasons past and gone
The Winter’s cold can no more hold
The sun’s restoring heat to scorn
As each new flower
Foretells the hour
Of Summer’s song reborn.

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Author Bio

Ingrid is a writer and poet whose aim is to share stories which are experimental in one form or other–be it content, narrative voice or structure. Her blog, Experiments in Fiction: Stories Without Borders, promotes stories which either say something new or say something old in a new way—stories which challenge the reader and make them think again, read again, and ask questions.

Visit Ingrid’s Blog

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