I wrote this poem several years ago. As you must all know by now, I am besotted with the countryside. When you love it as much as I do it is very hard not to write about it in a sentimental way. In my view sentimentality has absolutely no part to play in any art form and therefore I try my level best (with varying degrees of success) to keep it out of my work. I have put a version of this poem on my blog before but I was just sorting out a file of my writing and I came across it. It seems to me to be an appropriate poem to follow yesterday's visit to the Arboretum in Autumn. I have altered it somewhat since last time.
Autumn comes to the hills.
There comes a day when
time seems to stand still.
The last few flowers on the meadow cranesbill
have turned to spiky seeds.
The tall,dry heads of the dock
line the verges like policemen.
The meadow sweet has lost its creamy smell
and turned to brittle brown.
The dying green of the trees is
changing to vivid hues.
On the hills the clouds flirt with the tops
and a faint mist marks the beck's course.
Everywhere is cool and still,
only the clear song of the robin
breaks the silence.
Then the wind rustles through the trees
and time moves on again.
Have a good weekend.