Its Autumn (Decastich) Poem by Gert Strydom
Its Autumn (Decastich)
It’s autumn and while leaves drift down
from the big old pepper tree
you sit on a bench in our garden
with a distant look on your face
while you are far beyond lovely
in a loose white robe,
are swathed in the bronze light of the setting sun
while a flock of sparrows and weavers
peck at the crumbs that you have scattered
from a piece of white bread
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4/19/2024 4:49:29 PM # 1.0.0.1119
