When the Wattle Turns to Gold
Posted: Wed Sep 19, 2012 3:49 am
When the Wattle Turns to Gold
© Irene Conner 16.09.12
In the greyness of the winter
when the air is damp and chill;
when the morning light is shrouded
by the fog beneath the hill;
when the days are short and dreary
with no sun to warm the cold,
I’ll be dreaming of the springtime
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the trees are bent and trembling
in the midst of winter squalls;
when a careless foot is anchored
in the mud as more rain falls;
when the dampness, all pervading,
spawns an ever-creeping mould,
I’ll anticipate the beauty
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the days are creeping slowly
but the grass is full and lush
and the early morning sunlight
paints the soft clouds with a blush;
when the budding of the bushes
hint at beauty still untold,
I will know the day is dawning
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the birdsong wakes the morning
serenading to the world
and the dainty buds of colour
in their glory have unfurled,
and when Mother Nature graces
us with beauty to behold,
I will revel in the magic
when the wattle turns to gold.
As the springtime fades to summer
and the heat intensifies,
there’s a lightness in my spirit
as the season purifies.
When the freshness waves goodbye and
colours change from soft to bold,
I will not forget the glory
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the autumn leaves have fallen
and again the winter calls;
when the firelight’s burning bright and
dancing sylphs light up the walls,
I will sit in grateful silence
as my memories unfold,
and I’ll journey to the springtime
when the wattle turns to gold.
Sylph – imaginary being that dwelt in the air, and were light, dainty, and airy beings; an imaginary being of the air.
© Irene Conner 16.09.12
In the greyness of the winter
when the air is damp and chill;
when the morning light is shrouded
by the fog beneath the hill;
when the days are short and dreary
with no sun to warm the cold,
I’ll be dreaming of the springtime
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the trees are bent and trembling
in the midst of winter squalls;
when a careless foot is anchored
in the mud as more rain falls;
when the dampness, all pervading,
spawns an ever-creeping mould,
I’ll anticipate the beauty
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the days are creeping slowly
but the grass is full and lush
and the early morning sunlight
paints the soft clouds with a blush;
when the budding of the bushes
hint at beauty still untold,
I will know the day is dawning
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the birdsong wakes the morning
serenading to the world
and the dainty buds of colour
in their glory have unfurled,
and when Mother Nature graces
us with beauty to behold,
I will revel in the magic
when the wattle turns to gold.
As the springtime fades to summer
and the heat intensifies,
there’s a lightness in my spirit
as the season purifies.
When the freshness waves goodbye and
colours change from soft to bold,
I will not forget the glory
when the wattle turns to gold.
When the autumn leaves have fallen
and again the winter calls;
when the firelight’s burning bright and
dancing sylphs light up the walls,
I will sit in grateful silence
as my memories unfold,
and I’ll journey to the springtime
when the wattle turns to gold.
Sylph – imaginary being that dwelt in the air, and were light, dainty, and airy beings; an imaginary being of the air.
