Sepia

The time of the shining of
Wind-summered grasses, has passed,
-To the lark-breast mottle-
The harvested skin of the
Senescent land

The candle-snatch gutter of
Hurrying wing sees
The last of the coin
That was minted in thatches
Of deepwood
Of latticing bramble
Of crumbling eve.

The mourn of the Moorland
Has  feathered a will
With the clot of the Ash,
Where a heather of cinnabar
Freckles the splash of
a simmering tarn

As gravelling Easterlies
Peel the cling of
The verdigris fades,
Some twilight of sepia
Musters the pastel
of Wintering calm.

Reviews

[Neville]

stunning in its own demure way
a complex hue indeed..... much like these fine words, again.. thoroughly enjoyed.. N

[Alistair (Ali)]

Gawd bless you!...Thank you Neville and it reminds me that I need to get back to some moorland- amazing habitat!!

[Neville]

splendid, sounds like you got a plan..

[Coyote Poetry]

I love how you use the language. A ancient feel to your words and your thoughts. I enjoyed this poem. I had to read a few times. You made me believe and create wonderful visions. Thank you Ali for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote

[Alistair (Ali)]

An absolute pleasure, my friend!- and thank you for your insight too, because it was a timeless quality of the land that I was somehow trying to distill- and you got that- and that is brilliant! thank you so much!
Not far from here, is a place I go to watch Goshawks- the best view is from the top of a bronze-age barrow- it is an extraordinary place to be.

Thank you Sir!

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome my friend.