The Seasons

Winter’s cloak is thick and heavy, lined
with fur and folds like a duvet.

Winter is an old man, bent
in two, an aching back and creaking knees,

a white beard laced with ice
skin that wrinkles around his eyes.

Spring’s cloak is lighter, the material
skipping and flowing it drips over the ground

like a gentle stream, she slips
and jumps, light on the ground, fingers

soft and delicate. Her hair is silver
and her laugh gentle and kind.

Summer is a slippery being, her cloak
nearly invisible as she slips

it on, it reflects the light
shimmering as it glides over the ground.

She is hard to catch and impossible
to see, she does not hang around long,

and so autumn is glad to pull his cloak
back on and walk out into the world

a smile on his face. His cloak
is not heavy but it is warm,

and secure on his shoulders
as he strides out into the world.

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