Night Songs

The love songs of the crickets are ended,

Summer seductions consummated or not,

Eggs laid safely by in still-warm ground

Or the settling mulch of fallen trees,

Where lovers and beloveds have entered

Too in each other's arms, wings silent now,

Nature redeeming both the living and the dead.

 

Now I am at a loss for what was revealed

When counting the chirps in fifteen seconds

And adding thirty-seven told me the weather.

And now, driving past this farm, this November,

On a hill is an old wooden windmill with one

Broken arm, rising and falling in a whirring

And chirring that goes on and on all night.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 533 times
Written on 2011-11-02 at 18:00

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Your poetic prowess shines in this song of the transition from summer to late autumn. The sound effects of the dying summer nights are haunting and musical. The comparison of the chirping of the insects and the whirring of the broken windmill is well represented and I especially like the way you steered the poem from the general to the specific and to the present moment with 'THIS farm' and 'THIS November.' That gives it an intimacy and immediacy that take us right there on the scene.

William
2011-11-03


An-ders
Very nice. Took me on a journey, this text did. Thanks..
2011-11-02