The forests are flaming now.
the quivering bough
Is shedding each reluctant leaf
whose golden, brief
song is ending.
Bending
in the mire
of mud and fire,
Scattering the deep-
huddled sheep
on the earthy floor,
looking for
an unforgotten spring,
I found a ring
of purple clay –
a ring of clay
that once wore stem and petal!
This sodden metal,
dank and soft,
sent aloft
the first white springing wind
pale perfume, thinned
in April rain.
Sleep out of pain,
Violet …….. sleep!
Evelyn Coffey
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