Submitted by Ann Neilson
The Lord above hath dipped His brush,
And painted upon organic earth.
The golden hues, His eminence bright,
Reflects in clouds near Heaven’s height.
Marigold ink billows and froths
In echoes of the steady stream,
Of yonder river, among the glade,
Reflecting Autumn in quiet staid.
Antiquity nods her stately head
To dyes of crimson foliage,
And bids goodbye to dying limbs,
Solemnly humming death’s mournful hymns.
Yet, whilst death intercedes, subdued whispers
Hush the earth with pearl and ecru.
The Divine hand, Who fearfully inspires,
Hath moulded earth, the poet’s lyre.
Photo credit: The Undergrowth in the Forest of Saint-Germain – Claude Monet