ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

We have just witnessed one of the most spectacular Autumns here at "Riverglade", but with the beauty comes the never ending chore of dispersing leaves. Over the past days I have spent many hours raking, resulting in leaf piles all through park, a chore which yesterday was amusingly brought undone by a group of children visiting the park. Watching them happily rolling and tossing, this favourite came to mind.

Children In Autumn
Here, in the soft, sweet-smelling haze,
a maple stands alone, a blaze
of colour, stirring memories
of rustic lanes and giant trees;
and there, along the curb for miles--
the leaves raked up in equal piles.

Could there be anything we know
that can evoke the wondrous glow
of childhood more than trampling leaves?
How clearly, then, the soul perceives--
amid the miracle of fall,
that we are children, one and all.

Oh, let me never grow too old
to be bewitched by autumn's gold--
to share the overwhelming joy
within the heart of that small boy
who runs amuck when he perceives
these tempting, ordered piles of leaves.

Jean S. Platt

Back to the leaves!!!
Sue

I bet it was worth raking those leaves up Sue to see the kids rolling in them. Just the thought of them doing it brings a smile to my face. The autumn colour is magnificent this year isn't it?

Heather

Natures canvas at its best Heather. Love it

Sue

Who is Jean S Platt, Sue ?

That name sounds familiar to me Sue or am I imagining things?

An American grandmother who I understand was an accomplished author and poet. Not that well known Neville, but I stumbled upon her poetry some time ago and it instantly appealed to me. Here's another example

Full Circle
The old man sleeps—an embryo—
Knees drawn up to his chest,
I hesitate to waken him;
perhaps it might be best
to let him dream a little yet;
he looks so peaceful there,
and life is so confusing now,
the happy moments, rare.
But even as I stand and watch,
he wakes to gaze at me.
No recognition on his face,
he stares; then suddenly
he beckons with a fragile hand
to bring me to his side.
(He wants someone to comb his hair;
he hasn’t lost his pride.)
I hold the mirror when I’m through;
He’s pleased; his hair looks fine.
Three score—the years I’ve been his child;
now, for a while, he’s mine.

Jean S. Platt

Good stuff Sue. And good practice I reckon to be reading it for your own writing benefit as well.