Autumn

The thistledowns flying though the winds are all still
On the green grass now lying now mounting the hill
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot

The ground parched & cracked is like overbaked bread
The greensward all wracked is bents dried up & dead
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed
& gossamers twitter flung from weed unto weed

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun
& the rivers were eying burn to gold as they run
Burning hot is the ground liquid gold is the air
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there

Follow for daily #JohnClare posts

#poetry  #environment #truth #honesty