A waiting season
There were no birds or
shadows under this nonchalant sky
of October,
I mourned yellow
and beaded eyes on the pond -
the slowness of floating.
I consoled myself
with the rust-painted reeds:
pleasing like red apples on snow,
but these months, I know,
are a waiting for beauty;
thinking of the times I was in the right place,
only later revealing to me why.
In the evening the lead grey clouds
rolled into a gold wheatfield
falling of a sunset,
twilight burning from the
white unused drift of the day.
shadows under this nonchalant sky
of October,
I mourned yellow
and beaded eyes on the pond -
the slowness of floating.
I consoled myself
with the rust-painted reeds:
pleasing like red apples on snow,
but these months, I know,
are a waiting for beauty;
thinking of the times I was in the right place,
only later revealing to me why.
In the evening the lead grey clouds
rolled into a gold wheatfield
falling of a sunset,
twilight burning from the
white unused drift of the day.
LJ Ireton, 2024
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