Tag Archives: poems about nature

Spinning Seasons


Few weeks have died
since oak leaves swelled to greet a brightening sky,
a welcome treat that screened my eyes from dun-hued proof
of teeming human life across the street.
The sky’s white sun gave promise of tomorrow;
its tenuous rays reeled in our faith as it beckoned buds to bloom,
while clean rain rushed to nurture roots beneath the earth
and tease new life to sprout through damp nutritious dirt.

Summer swells and fades far sooner than in former days,
as if the the carousel of nature’s failing fast;
the fickle sun can’t wait to hide behind a wall of foggy grey,
and amber tinted hands begin to wave amidst the green bouquets
of helpless branches swaying in the cooling breeze.

The evening sunset hints at autumn gales
that whip wet hair across the face,
that wreck umbrellas, leaving busy shoppers wringing wet,
so, eyes downcast,
they watch the slippery path beneath their feet,
and many miss the bronze display of nature’s brief retreat.

Ageing folk will button coats and wrap up snug,
complaining of the cold, forgetting childhood’s biting weather.
They’ll creak past harried mothers bustling through the mild chill
boldly chiding scuffling kids who kick on rustling golden lawn
as careless litter flutters by,
and swarming birds fly home to warmer climes.

Skeletal trees will briefly mourn the passing of their glory,
then settle in for pregnant winter sleep,
and I will sit and watch wild horses race across the sky
and beg the carousel to quickly bring the Spring.

The Daily Post #Carousel

©Jane Paterson Basil




It tempts me;
its silvered surface shimmering,
singing swishing songs of thrilling terrain
way beyond regal, towering trees
which cool its clean, unfeeling floor,
beyond eroding ochre banks
where brave blades of grass battle the flow.

“Follow,” it trills,
“follow, beyond your mediocre days,
beyond worn lanes and dark pathways;
beyond the things you know;
follow where I go.

 It tempts me,
as, endless, it flows,
impatient to take the next bend, frothing
at inanimate objects that would slow it,

secretly stealing shreds
of shrinking stones and rotting logs,
to stash wherever they may land.

“Follow,” it trills.
Beneath the lilting descant shrill
I note a deeper, throaty tone,
as if it’s sung for me alone;
this lulling intimate refrain,
“Follow where I go.

No single body this,
but a mighty band of haphazard travellors;
an offhand crew of discrete molecules,
too miniscule for our dim eyes to see singly,
as they weave, sharing the road awhile,
then parting company,
perhaps to meet another time;
in the sky, in water pipes,
or in some distant clime;
the whole planet their home,
racing forever on,
adventurous travellors
with ne’er a planned destination.

“Follow,” it trills,
“follow, beyond your mediocre days,
beyond worn lanes and dark pathways;
beyond the things you know;
follow where I go.

Ever tempted to give chase,
  each time I stay where I feel safe.


©Jane Paterson Basil