The Black Autumn
Comes the cold, black, wake of autumn,
harbouring its' pique on naked limb;
damp, feral winds astir
to the stalking, hawking,
and hideous squawking...
of ominous, impetuous birds;
large and intrusively pestilent,
inexorabally circling,
'neath the late day shadows
of a cold november sunfall.
And the crows of Autumn, wear angry eyes,
the kind you felt on the back of your neck
when you read Edgar Allan's ''Raven''.
Teasing the breeze-spun tumbleweeds,
as they roll over cornfields... spewing-
threads and shard of stick, and husk,
gaunt signs of a harvest dying.
Clouds bleed deep sage, and drape
over the foreboding presence
of these dark-winged beasts in flock,
fecklessly searching for any sign
that autumn had not yet abandoned them.
Dark and black, blackest black, hovering,
over the last man standing,
in this smoke-dry field,
rigidly stationed with stoic poise,
donned in spirited, tattered plaid,
guardian of the harvest,
protector of the field,
intrepidly perched over its cornucopia
of waning autumntide-offerings.
Thus, hanging upon six feet of wood
stands the Scarecrow,
weathered, yet sturdy,
in a pose of crucifixion.
And, the taunting begins,
with a strident kick of breeze,
as the crows fly low, in arrowed flank,
with bitter, and arrogance-
their Autumn slipping away.
Swooping to the gust of a winter prelude,
obsessively circling, their black eyes gleaming,
the strawman succumbs
to a wind-flounced dance,
and to the evil delight of its menacing prey,
while Wind choirs strond...in loud soprano
like high-pitched fifes on air.
[...] Read more
poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
Added by Poetry Lover
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